#also to my cousin who i sent almost this exact message to word for word: if you see this post & my tumblr? NO U DIDNT SHH

[oatm3al-c00kies]

ok now LISTEN not to make everything about buddie. but. what if the thing that leaves eddie “feeling isolated” next season is him grappling with & coming to terms with his sexuality or his feelings specifically for buck.

like he could feel isolated and like he doesn’t have anyone to turn to because of his catholic guilt/shame making it something he’s not be comfortable talking about PLUS the fact that he would typically turn to buck about things like this but how do you talk to your best friend about your problems when your problems are that you think you’re in love with him…

[andrbllts]

My Cousin Just Commited Suicide

Last night, while I was at work, packing my bag for my flight back to Manila the next day, in my cold, spacious hotel room here in Cebu, I received a message that sent chills down my spine. It was from Gab’s yaya, and what she said left me shaken: my 21-year-old cousin, Oneil, had just tried to take his own life. For a moment, everything felt unreal. Then she told me that Oneil was saved in time by his older brother, Regil. Relief washed over me, but the shock stayed. I immediately asked for more details.

It was around 11 PM, and the whole house was asleep when Regil woke up to a strange crackling noise coming from the bathroom, followed by the disturbing sound of someone choking. Something didn’t feel right. He got up to check and saw a sight no one should ever see: Oneil, hanging from the ceiling with a thick nylon rope around his neck, eyes wide open and red. He was on the brink of death. If Regil had been just a second too late, we would’ve lost him.

The whole house erupted in panic. Tears filled the room as they realized what almost happened. But the question lingered-why? Why would Oniel do this?

It felt all too familiar. Four years ago, Oneil’s 2nd older brother ended his life in the exact same place, in the exact same way, at the same age. Maybe it was the grief he carried—his mother’s death, his father’s stroke that left him bedridden, or the passing of our grandmother just last December, whom Oneil was very closed to. Maybe it was stress at work, a rough breakup, or the pressure of becoming a father so soon. There are countless possibilities, but none of us really know.

Oneil was always quiet, but he seemed fine. Always smiling, always kind. He was never the type to show when something was wrong. After the attempt, family members tried to talk to him, to remind him that we love him and he’s not alone. But he just stared blankly, no emotion on his face, not a single word. We’ve decided to give him time, but we’re making sure he’s never alone.

And then, as if the universe wanted to drive home the point, I saw a post from a friend’s partner about someone else who just committed suicide awhile ago. It’s becoming a painful pattern, and I can’t help but wonder—why does this keep happening?

I’ve known people who have taken their own lives. I’ve attended their funerals, seen the grief they left behind, and watched families break apart. I remember asking myself, “How could they do this? Didn’t they see the people who loved them?” But deep down, I understood. Because I’ve been there, too.

I know how those dark thoughts can sneak up on you. I know what it’s like to be overwhelmed by pain, to feel like you’re drowning with no way out. I’ve mourned for those who couldn’t keep going, and I’ve also stood at the edge, wondering how I would make it through.

But why? Why does it get that bad? There are so many reasons—life trauma, depression, anxiety, feeling like you don’t belong, or just being exhausted by the constant struggles. Sometimes, there’s no explanation at all. Sometimes, the pain just doesn’t make sense.

I remember a service I attended at Victory Church The Fort. Pastor Gilbert Foliente spoke about suicide awareness and the battles we all face in silence. He told us that we need to be there for each other, to pay attention, to listen. He emphasized that suicide is never the solution. It’s a permanent response to a temporary problem. And for the people left behind, it’s a wound that never truly heals.

There will be days that feel impossible to get through. Days when it seems like everything is falling apart. But those are the times you need to hold on the most. Because there will also be better days. I still have moments when I feel like I’m suffocating, like every time I try to breathe, I get pulled back down. But in those moments, I think of the people who love me—my family, my son. I think of the dreams I still want to chase, the places I still want to see, the person I want to become.

If you ever find yourself in that place, reach out for help. Talk to someone. It doesn’t have to be a professional—just someone who will listen. Try new things, pick up a hobby, listen to music that makes you feel alive, take a walk, or hold on to something—anything—that gives you hope. Don’t break someone else’s heart by leaving your own behind. Even if you can’t see it now, someone out there needs you. Someone loves you. Stay alive long enough to see how your story unfolds. Keep going, even when it’s hard. Keep fighting, even when you want to give up.

Because you’re worth fighting for. You matter, even if you can’t see it right now. And your story isn’t over. Keep living, keep fighting, someone out there is bound to genuinely love you for who you are despite your shortcomings and always remember to never let the darkness win.

PS:

he's now safe and well. TYG. ❤

[omgkatsudonplease]

[ficlet, bagginshield] call me thorin (bridgerton au)

The next morning, Bilbo wakes to the sound of an insistent knocking at his front door. Rushing through the halls, he makes it into the foyer just as his valet Holman answers the door for him. 

“Delivery for Mr Baggins,” chirps Hamson Gamgee of Gaffer’s Flowers from the other side. Still only half awake, Bilbo toddles over to his valet’s side and peers out, and then promptly does a double-take at the veritable parade of flowers on his front step. 

“What,” says Bilbo intelligently.

“It’s from the Dwarf-king,” says Hamson cheerily. “He bought out Papa’s entire stock.”

Shocked, both Bilbo and Holman stand aside to let the flower parade through. Hamson and his siblings array the flowers all over the foyer and the parlours, and when they’re done, Bilbo can hardly move without running into flowers. 

It rather feels like he’s trapped in a hothouse, or the botanical gardens at Rivendell. His stomach is swooping with all sorts of strange and contradictory feelings.

“That Dwarf-king must really be serious,” remarks Holman when the Gamgees finally leave. Bilbo doesn’t have the heart to tell him that all of these flowers are a lie.

Bilbo has only ever run into one or two Dwarves before in his past, and he’s certainly never courted (or fake-courted) one before, so he has no idea if this incredible fastidiousness to the terms of the agreement is a Dwarvish thing or a Thorin thing. Either way, it works like a charm. News of the Dwarf-king buying out the entire stock of Gaffer’s Flowers for Mr Baggins quickly gets out, and all of his usual dissembling callers seem to vanish in an instant.

Well, almost all. 

“Mr Gladden is here to see you,” says Holman halfway through second breakfast. Bilbo puts down the seed-cake he had been eating in the kitchen with a sigh, shrugs off his dressing-gown for his morning coat instead, and heads into the parlour. An array of cakes and finger sandwiches have been laid out for potential visitors this morning, as well as a pitcher of lemonade, but no one has shown up until now. Bilbo swipes one of the cakes as he sits down in his favourite armchair, and waves for Holman to escort his caller in.

Mr Gladden slinks in with a hunched-over little bow. Bilbo knows he ought to be charitable, but he can’t help but think that there’s something rather unsettling in Mr Gladden’s leer, not to mention his phlegmy coughing.

“Precious has so many flowers today,” remarks Mr Gladden as he takes a seat on the settee opposite Bilbo. 

Bilbo bites down the frankly quite rude urge to tell the fellow that he’s not his precious. “How are you doing this morning, Mr Gladden?”

“Very well, very well.” Mr Gladden barely manages to say those words before he starts coughing again. “I came for our riddles, as always. Precious has such nice riddles.”

Bilbo doesn’t feel the smile on his face. It’s been five seasons of riddles, and he still hasn’t summoned the courage to be rude to Mr Gladden’s face. As far as the rest of the Shire is concerned, he’s practically Nienna herself for indulging this fellow in his love for riddles.

He’s about to start on one when Holman shows up at the parlour threshold again. “His Majesty King Thorin of Erebor for Mr Baggins,” he announces.

Mr Gladden’s brows furrow. “I thought I was the only one with Precious,” he says.

“I’ve been in high demand for seven seasons, Mr Gladden,” replies Bilbo neutrally.

“But Precious always has time for me.” Mr Gladden pouts. “Besides, it’s my birthday. I ought to have a riddle for my birthday.”

Bilbo sends a despairing look at Holman, who quickly leaves and returns with Thorin. Bilbo’s breath hitches at the sight of the Dwarf-king in his navy morning coat, whose long dark hair is, as ever, pulled back in a neat low ponytail and braids. 

“Good morning, Thorin,” Bilbo manages, a little more breathless than he’d like. Or perhaps the right amount, given the company they’re in. 

“I see that my flowers have not sent a strong enough message,” remarks Thorin with a withering glare at Mr Gladden.

“Mr Gladden visits me out of force of habit,” demurs Bilbo, sending Thorin a ‘save me’ look. The Dwarf-king nods, brisk but understanding, and walks over to loom over Mr Gladden. The other Hobbit seems to wilt at that, before slinking out from under Thorin’s glare and heading for the door.

“Nasty Dwarveses,” he mutters, before breaking down in a bout of coughing as Holman escorts him out of Bag End. 

Bilbo exhales as soon as the door to Bag End closes. “He’s been like that for five seasons,” he explains as Thorin now takes Mr Gladden’s vacated seat, helping himself to a little cup of flummery. “When we met I was still fairly inexperienced with the season’s social expectations, so I thought I had to give him the time of day. Now he’s like a limpet.”

“I find it astounding that you have not put your foot down and chased him out yourself,” replies Thorin, stabbing idly at the flummery. 

“I pity the fellow,” replies Bilbo. “His country manners have not made him many friends. But, over the years, he has grown more and more possessive.”

“Country manners?” echoes Thorin.

“His family is not from the Shire,” replies Bilbo. “They are staying in Buckland for the season, but they originally hail from the edge of Greenwood. But... since most of Shire society does not hold Mr Gladden in high regard, I do rather pity him.”

“Ah.” Thorin nods, leaning back. “So he’s not your true love.”

“Mandos, no.” Bilbo shakes his head vehemently. 

“But if he unsettles you, you should let him know of it,” replies Thorin.

“And run the risk of being strangled?” wonders Bilbo. At Thorin’s raised eyebrow, he explains, “there is a rumour in Buckland that one of his ancestors in Greenwood murdered his cousin in a jealous rage because his cousin was leaving to get married. I suspect the very same spirit lurks in Mr Gladden’s eyes. I don’t have the lack of self-preservation to test that theory, though.”

Thorin hums. “Any other persistent callers I should be aware of?”

“Besides Mr Gladden? Miss Bracegirdle, probably,” replies Bilbo. “Neither of them will take no for an answer, it seems, but at least Miss Bracegirdle knows the concept of respectability.” Perhaps a bit too much, but that’s neither here nor there.

For a moment, they sit together, Bilbo idly pouring them both tea while Thorin spoons bite-sized scoops of flummery into his mouth. Bilbo very determinedly does not stare at the way the Dwarf-king’s tongue licks his mother’s delicate silverware. 

“We should discuss the exact number of events to attend together, and what to do at them,” he says. Thorin hums in agreement, so Bilbo continues. “Tomorrow is the Brandywine River Promenade, which I hope you’ll attend.”

“I may bring my valet and advisor,” warns Thorin.

“That’s fine,” says Bilbo. “I also recommend packing a picnic basket.”

Thorin nods. “Are there other balls to attend?” he asks. 

“Several,” replies Bilbo. “Eight, perhaps.”

“Eight!” The word comes out of Thorin like a winded surprise. “Surely that is overdoing things.”

“And this isn’t?” wonders Bilbo, with a pointed nod towards the flower avalanche surrounding them. Thorin’s cheeks flush pink.

“I did not know which flowers you liked,” he protests.

“Violets,” says Bilbo quickly. “Or daisies. But I wouldn’t say no to roses.”

“See, that sort of indecision leads to results like this.” Thorin’s eyes twinkle in amusement, damn him. Bilbo laughs off his nerves in reply.

“If you can buy out a flower shop, you can attend eight balls,” he declares.

“Three,” insists Thorin. “After all, I am to call on you or promenade with you at other times. But do you not think all of this will be taken too seriously? It rather closes off your schedule to other potential suitors.”

Bilbo chuckles. “In this war we wage against the rest of Shire society, our best weapon is our appearance,” he replies. “Thus, it must be made apparent to everyone what your intentions for me are.”

“The very precipice of marriage,” muses Thorin. Bilbo nods. If the next Stormcrow does not remark on the sudden whirlwind romance they’ve been concocting, he’ll eat his hat. 

Thorin sighs. “Six balls,” he offers as a compromise. “After all, I am still king and have duties, even on tour.”

Bilbo concedes. “Six balls, and you bring the drinks to our luncheon tomorrow at the Brandywine,” he replies.

“Deal,” says Thorin. “Would you like it in writing?”

Bilbo chuckles. “That would find its way to Stormcrow eventually,” he points out. “Let’s just make it a promise. Six balls, and drinks to tomorrow’s promenade.”

“Agreed.” Thorin sighs, before looking around him at the state of Bag End’s front rooms. He grins. “Do you need any more flowers?”

Bilbo resists the urge to throw a rose at him.

[yournewapartment]

YNA, I need help or advice or something: there's this video going around Facebook, that my cousin just sent me, from a woc who is saying that "racially motivated police brutality is a myth" and I'm so angry like how can she say that? "White men are more likely to be killed by cops," "cops are more likely to be killed by black men," and crap like that. I dont believe any of it but how do I prove to my cousin it's bs? The woman was citing figures and yelling "look it up!!" Was she bluffing?

I recently listened to a wonderful podcast from In The Dark about the case of Curtis Flowers, a POC who had to endure an unprecedented number of murder trails in Mississippi for a mass murder he did not commit. The prosecutor on the case, an asshole named Doug Evans, was a racist, and tried the case six times. There is only one other case in all of United States history, to have been tried even close to this many times. One other case! Curtis’ case kept getting overturned because his defense team was able to prove time and time again, that Evans and his team were racists. They used their legal power in the courtroom to strike as many black people from the jury pool as possible. Out of the six trials (think 12 jurors and 3 alternates), I believe only eight POC made it onto the jury. That’s 8 out of 90 possible! My memory might not be 100% correct, but you get the point. 

It’s a wonderful podcast and I highly recommend you listen if you’re interested in true crime. BUT, my point...

During several of the trials, Mr. Evans used jail-house informants who were POC. All of them have since recanted their testimony and have said that Evans paid them to testify or helped them get lesser prison sentences. But this is after the fact. In the Dark investigators interviewed different jurors who sat on different juries (the jail house informants were used at almost every trial). Many of the white jurors said that they gave the jailhouse informants more credence than they normally would have, because they were POC. They said that they did not think that POC would turn on other POC if it wasn’t for a good reason. Which is, my friends.... wait for it... just another form of racism against POC! 

The few black jurors that made it to juries did not give the jailhouse informants more credence at all. Several even said that they found the jail house informants very untrustworthy and unreliable. Because the court literally tells you: “Hey, these are jail house informants, you have to take their testimony with a grain of salt.”

I haven’t seen this video and I obviously don’t know the background of it or of the POC on it. But it sounds to me like white people are watching this video and thinking: “Well, this is a POC saying these things, so this video has to be an honest take on the situation.” It’s sounding like they’re giving this video more weight and importance than they would a video of a white person saying the same exact things. 

Which is... racism! 

Racism is not always brutality and violence, thought it often times is. 

Racism can be your white grandmother saying: “I don’t have a problem with black people, their music is just too loud.” 

It can be your friend saying the n-word when she’s singing along to a Kendrick Lamar song: “He said it first, so why can’t I say it?” 

It can be a co-worker assuming a POC co-worker speaks a different language based on their skin color. 

It can even be you! If I’m walking around at night by myself, and I see a group of black men hanging out in a park, doing their own thing, why am I uneasy? I have to ask myself- if this were a group of white men, would I still feel uneasy? Why do I feel this way? Do I carry inherent racism with me as a white person, just based on the way I react with society as a white woman? 

Guys- I definitely do! And if you’re a white person reading this, I bet you do too. My parents are die-hard liberals who have always touted equal rights for everyone. In my education, I never had a teacher spout openly racist view points or try to “brain wash me” into being racist. It was a default. A default, because every interaction I’ve had with everyone I’ve ever met, has in some part been a judgment based on my appearance. It’s not a conscious thing, it’s what we as humans do, we take in our surroundings. Living life as a white woman has granted me invisible privileges that POC do not share. 

And... that’s a hard pill to swallow. I’m sure that I’ll get comments on this post and asks in my inbox with angry white people criticizing what I’ve just said. Because nobody wants to be called a racist! White people who spend their whole lives with POC, who have never intentionally said anything negative about POC, do not want to hear that they were essentially born into racism. Fam, I didn’t want to hear it either! But it is not enough to “not be a racist”. We’ve come too far as a species to sit back idly and occasionally tweet “Black Lives Matter” and congratulate ourselves for the effort. As a white person with my rights and privileges, it is my duty to society to be actively “anti-racist”. 

It is my duty to educate myself. It is my duty to stand with POC. To amplify POC’s voices. To listen when POC talk. And most importantly- to not make it about myself! Which I have in this post, I know. But as semi-popular blogger who is white, I feel that I needed to write this out to help other white people.  White people- get angry! Be the change you wish to see in the world. Step up and do what you can to support POC. 

I know I’ve somewhat indirectly answered your question, so more to the point. I don’t know who this POC is in the video. But on a very basic level, I know that you know, that what the woman in the video is saying is not the truth. It’s been proven time and time again that POC (particularly black POC), have been murdered by the systemic racism of our justice system. Just scroll back on my blog and check out the posts I reblogged #blacklivesmatter for more specific details. This is not to say that the justice system magically works 100% if you’re white, it clearly doesn’t. But as a white person, you have a much better chance of getting a fair shake of things. Whether that’s being pulled over by a cop, being arrested, or even getting an impartial jury. These are basic human rights that we should all enjoy! 

Anyone can hop on the internet, record a shitty video, and act like it’s the truth. I can record a video stating that I’m an FBI agent who has been hunting serial killers using the nanotechnology of gusher candies, but nobody is going to fucking believe me. Every video on the internet needs to be treated with scrutiny, and frankly, your cousin is a fool if she’s willing to end her education on racism just because she watched one video with a POC condemning it.

In this case, I would message your cousin the following resources on racism and police statistics so that she can educate herself. There are countless articles all over the internet:

https://mappingpoliceviolence.org/

https://www.citylab.com/equity/2019/08/police-officer-shootings-gun-violence-racial-bias-crime-data/595528/

Also important resources:

https://blacklivesmatter.com/

https://www.aclu.org/

How to be anti-racist: https://weedmaps.com/news/2020/06/where-to-start-being-anti-racist-educate-yourself-with-black-voices/

https://medium.com/wake-up-call/a-detailed-list-of-anti-racism-resources-a34b259a3eea

Check out the case of Curtis Flowers on all your favorite podcast streaming services: https://www.apmreports.org/in-the-dark/season-two/curtis-flowers-updates

I appreciate everyone who read this. I feel a little uneasy posting this if I’m being honest. I am white, this isn’t about my voice. So if you are a POC and have feedback for me, please let me know. I will keep on keeping on, and will do my part to support #blacklivesmatter.

[songtoyou]

Chapter 12: Switch - Part One

Tolerate It

Paring: Modern!Tommy Shelby x Original Female Character

Story Rating: R (No minors should read this fic).

Word Count: 3,791

Warnings: Swearing

Story Description: Tommy Shelby is the owner and CEO of Shelby Company Limited. Starting out as a Bookmaker, Tommy had big ideas to expand his riches. In the past ten years, the company has grown rapidly to expand its business ventures from bars to producing alcohol, manufacturing motor vehicle parts, and exporting. One of the richest men in Great Britain, Tommy Shelby, has it all. Unfortunately, the death of his wife, Grace, left the multi-millionaire mogul alone and depressed. He needed someone to fulfill his needs and deepest darkest desires.

Chapter Summary: Easter has arrived. Tommy is spending it with his family, while Rose is forced to spend time with her ex. We learn that Tommy does not always want to be in control. 

A/N: This chapter will have two parts.

I do not permit my work to be posted on any other site without my permission.

Tag list: @owenniasstars​

There was a part of Tommy that wished he did not have to be in control all of the time. It was understandable that he be the one in charge of his business as he had no other person to rely on to step up to the plate. Michael was still too young. Also, Tommy had been developing doubts and distrust towards his cousin. It didn’t help that Michael would schedule secret meetings with potential business partners and act as if he was doing it to help Tommy and the company. Tommy used to rely on and confide in his Aunt Polly. Yet, she began to distance herself more and more from the company, especially since getting remarried to Aberama Gold, a fellow business associate to Tommy. John and Arthur had their business deals to worry about, and Ada spent most of her time in the States.

He wished Grace was still alive. She was Tommy’s number one supporter. He shared almost everything with Grace (the legal side) and truly valued her advice and opinions. When Tommy was with Grace, he was able just to be himself. He was allowed to be calm and not have to overwork his mind. He didn’t have to be in control.

It was only with Grace that Tommy allowed another person to have total control over him in the bedroom. Both he and Grace shared characteristics of a dominant and submissive. They often switched roles, with Tommy as the dominant and Grace as the submissive, and vice versa. He loved it when Grace used to dominate him. No one would have suspected the sweet-natured blonde woman had an alpha personality behind closed doors, who was and controlling and overtly sexual.

With Grace gone, Tommy never allowed himself to be vulnerable in front of anyone. Lizzie tried to get Tommy to open that side of him up, but he denied her. He couldn’t do it. A part of Tommy felt as if it would be a betrayal to Grace. Both Ada and Polly constantly told Tommy that it was okay for him to move on from Grace.

“She gave you, on her deathbed, the permission to move on, Thomas. Respect your deceased wife’s wishes,” Aunt Polly would tell him. 

“Find someone to have a family with, Tommy. Charlie deserves to have a mother figure in his life and possible siblings if it were to happen. Let yourself be happy,” were Ada’s words of encouragement. 

No doubt Tommy would hear those exact words at his sister’s house this Sunday afternoon to celebrate Easter with the entire Shelby clan. Boy, it was going to be a long day. Charlie ended up spending the night at Ada’s with his cousins. Tommy was glad for that as indeed his sister would provide his son with an Easter basket. Tommy was not one for decorative or holiday pleasantries. That was all Grace. When Grace passed, Ada, Polly, or Esme would be the ones to step in and make sure Charlie celebrated his birthday with a party or invite him over for holiday festivities. Guilt would riddle Tommy at that notion that he could not provide his only child with a happy environment. Yes, Tommy loved Charlie dearly. However, Tommy could not deny that he lacked in other emotional departments. He was not one for sentiments or terms of endearment.

Another subject Tommy was not keen to have brought up was his “relationship” with Rose Turner. Unfortunately, he knew better than to expect his family members to rile him up about her and ask questions. None of them knew how Tommy met Rose. It was the same with Lizzie. While both Arthur and John were not faithful to their wives, neither were allowed to be members of Excelsior Club. He had mentioned Arthur and John to Tatiana to inquire if they could become members. Tatiana stated that they were both a liability. “Your brothers are too reckless and don’t fit the standards of our usual clientele. They are, how do I put this nicely? They are too ‘rough around the edges,’ so to speak,” Tatiana said dismissively when Tommy first started going to the Club.

It didn’t matter to Tommy either way; his brothers still managed to do fine all on their own. Besides, Arthur and John were not the faces of Shelby Company Limited; Tommy was and had an image to protect. If Tommy went down in disgrace, it would be for his business dealings, not that he kept himself in the company of whores.

However, Tommy could not help his growing feelings for Rose. There was an energy about her that was attractive to him that he could not quite understand why. Tommy was not sure if it was because Rose was able to adhere to his wicked desires. It amazed Tommy how she was keen on submitting and doing almost anything to please him. During scenes, Rose responded to Tommy as if he was the only man she needed, the only man she desired. And it felt genuine, not put on. There would be moments during aftercare where Rose would look at Tommy with such admiration and respect, that at first, it made him feel uneasy. But after a while, he came come to desire that look. That Tommy would do whatever it took to make sure Rose always looked at him in such away. Tommy found that he craved Rose’s respect, which caught him off guard. 

Tommy soon realized that he also respected Rose and how she would do anything for her son. He admired that notion about her. She willingly entered into a line of work that could be demanding, demeaning, and possibly dangerous to provide for her child was not something that Tommy took lightly or was flippant about it. He would never refer to Rose as a “hooker with a heart of gold.” No, she was much more than a trope. Tommy knew Rose did not need a knight and shining armor to save her. 

Lizzie wanted Tommy to save her. At the time, Tommy was in no position to be someone’s hero. He was too bruised, too shattered, too broken. 

Now, here Tommy was at his sister’s home celebrating Easter. He sat back and watched everyone. The laughter, the smiles, Tommy felt like he didn’t belong. Tommy felt like he couldn’t breathe, so he stepped out back to smoke a cigarette since Ada did not allow smoking in her home.

The inhale of nicotine helped soothe Tommy’s anxiety and calm his nerves. Often, he wished he was back on opium. It was his way of coping after coming home from Afghanistan. He was only able to get clean because of Grace and her support. He never touched the stuff after getting clean, but there were still cravings. The feelings that came with the high brought such bliss. The satisfaction that nothing could harm you. Those weren’t going to go away magically overnight. 

Tommy’s solitude was interrupted when his son, nephews, and nieces ran outside with their baskets to search for eggs. He looked at his watch and sighed. He was not sure how much longer he could stand this. 

As the children flittered around the yard, Tommy took out his phone. He opened the message from one of the Blinders he had assigned to watch over Rose that day. The text message Tommy received earlier unsettled him. It was a picture of Rose exiting her house with Louis and a man. The three got in a car and drove off. At first sight of the image, Tommy felt enraged. He immediately wanted to know who this man was and why he was with Rose. Tommy was livid. Fortunately, he calmed himself down when Rose sent him a text an hour later.

Rose: I know you have your guys watching over Louis and me. While I do appreciate that, it is a little much. The man I am with is Louis’s father, Nick. We are going out for an Easter brunch. Nothing for you to worry about, and Happy Easter. 

Tommy didn’t respond, but he was grateful that Rose cleared things up. He knew his reaction to the picture was ridiculous. The slight pang of jealously surprised Tommy. He didn’t quite know where it came from; it was the same feeling when Rose told him that Changretta contacted her. He was still unsure about what to do with Changretta. First, it was only business that Changretta was causing Tommy grief; now, the man was gearing up to steal his girl. Tommy realized that he must have been too lenient when dealing with the Changrettas now overstepping their boundaries. Tommy and the Peaky Blinders would have to put them in their place for good. 

Tommy would make sure that Rose was not a casualty if a war broke out. He was not going to lose her or the war.

“Mum! Come on!” Louis yelled. He was dressed and ready to go, but his mum was taking forever. “What is taking so long?”

“In a minute!” Rose shouted back. She was ready but was busy doing making an Easter basket for Louis. Rose placed the items strategically in the basket. She grabbed the basket and walked down the stairs. “Happy Easter, my little man.”

Rose handed the basket to Louis, who had a look of confusion and annoyance on his face. “What the Hell, Mum? Is this what you have been doing for the last thirty minutes?”

“Yes,” Rose said. “Don’t you like it?”

Louis sighed and placed the basket on the table. “I’m too old for an Easter basket,” he moaned but still looked through the basket to see what he got. “Holy shit! A new iPhone! AirPods!”

“Still want the basket?” Rose questioned sarcastically. “I mean, I’ll take it back if you don’t want it.”

“No, I want it. Mum, thank you,” Louis beamed with happiness and hugged Rose. 

“You’re welcome, sweetheart. You’re a good kid. I love you.”

“I love you too, Mum.”

Their tender moment was cut short when the doorbell rang. “Who the bloody Hell could that be?” Rose asked, confused.

“It is probably Dad. I told him it would be easier to pick us up,” Louis explained and went to open the door. “Dad! So good to see you.” 

Rose stood back, arms crossed, as Louis hugged his father. It was a sight that had Rose feel a pang in her chest. It reminded her that the three of them could have been a family, a typical family. That is what Louis deserved. Nick looked over at Rose and smiled at her. It was a warm and genuine smile. Rose felt like she was sixteen all over again.

“Rosie, you look…beautiful as always,” Nick complimented and went in for a hug but stopped himself. “We can hug, right?’

Rose scoffed, “Of course we can hug, weirdo.” The former lovers embraced, and Rose felt a familiarity, the feeling of being safe and uncertain. She pulled away. “Well, we better get going. Louis, where did you decide we go to eat?”

“Bella Roma. Can we stop by an Apple store after we’re done eating? I want to be able to switch over from my old iPhone to the new one. Mum, got me a new iPhone.” Louis held up his phone to his dad.

“Nice,” Nick admired. 

“We’ll see. Come, let’s get going,” Rose ordered and ushered everyone out of the house. Locking up, Rose turned around to see Louis and Nick walked towards a car. “Wow. Is this your car, Nick?”

“Don’t act so shocked. It is a used car, but yes, it is mine,” he told Rose. “It is a 2017 Hyundai Elantra. Got a pretty good price for it too.”

“Very nice,” Rose approved as she got inside, with Louis settling himself comfortably in the back seat. 

“Dad has a full-time job now. Isn’t that right, Dad,” Louis spoke up eagerly.

Nick started the car and drove away from the house. It would not be too long before they arrived at the restaurant. “Where do you work?” Rose asked, trying to hide the tone of suspicion in her voice. 

“My father took pity on me. I work at his insurance company. It took a while for him to trust me again. But Mum told Dad to give me a chance, especially when I got out of….”

“Prison,” Rose interrupted, and she noticed Nick straighten up in his seat. “That is good to hear. I’m glad your relationship with your parents is better. Better than mine, that is for sure,” she added under her breath. 

It was not long until Nick parked near Bella Roma. Once they entered the restaurant, the three were seated quickly. Rose sat on one side, while Nick and Louis sat together on the other side. Rose sat back and watched the interaction between father and son. It was sweet to watch Louis interact with his father. As Rose looked between the two, she was reminded how much they both looked so very much alike. It was eerie. Dark brown hair and brown eyes were two of the features they shared, along with a dimple on their chin. 

Soon, their waitress stopped by to get drink orders. “I’ll just have water, thank you,” said Rose. Truthfully, she would have liked a glass of wine to help take the edge off. However, Rose didn’t want anything to hinder her guard up around Nick.

They ended up ordering pizza to share and a plate of arancini as a starter. Louis was the one to dominate the conversation. He was desperately trying to get his parents to interact more. Louis kept praising his dad’s accomplishments to get his mum’s attention. “Mum, did you know dad volunteers to help underprivileged kids. It’s like, what did you refer to it as, a nice version of scared straight?”

Nick chuckled, “Something like that. I figured I could do something good and help guide kids to not make the same mistakes as me.”

Rose bit her tongue. For Louis’s sake, she would be nice. However, she wanted to bite back and ask Nick what he considers mistakes he has made throughout his life. Rose hoped he didn’t view Louis as some mistake. That would set her off. Rose picked at her pizza; she found herself not hungry all of a sudden. Nick and Louis continued to talk amongst themselves about mundane topics such as school, sports, music, etc.

At that moment, Rose’s thoughts drifted to Tommy. She wondered what he was doing, and kind of wished he was with her. That thought caught Rose off guard. She pulled out her phone and sent him a quick text. She wanted to let him know that she was out with Louis and Nick, along with wishing him a happy Easter. There were times where Rose wished she didn’t have to leave Tommy after their rendezvous in the hotel that Friday. She always felt safe with Tommy. There was a sense of security and a feeling of being protected. 

Rose found herself that the more she hung around Tommy, the more she began to trust him, and the more Rose began to like Tommy, which scared her. She was not supposed to develop feelings for him. He was a client, after all. He paid for her services. She willingly allowed him to do unspeakable sexual acts to her. Rose was willing to let Tommy do things she would never allow any other man to do to her. She wondered what made Tommy different compared to someone like Luca or Alfie. Probably because, in a weird sense, Tommy treated Rose like a human being and not some toy. Yes, she knew Tommy tended to be possessive, but he still respected Rose’s boundaries. Rose trusted Tommy not ever to cross them. 

“Rosie, are you still here?” Nick asked. He waved his hand in front of Rose’s face to get her attention.

“What?” Rose shook her head to clear her mind. “Sorry, what’s going on?”

“Dad asked you about the guy you are currently seeing,” Louis answered. He was frustrated that his dad brought up Tommy. 

“Oh yeah, what about Tommy?” 

“Just wondered how long you have been seeing this guy? How did you two meeting by the way?” Nick questioned. “I’ll be frank; I was stunned to find out that the mother of my child is dating the one and only Tommy Shelby. Isn’t he an OBE?”

Rose shrugged her shoulders at the question, “I guess he is an OBE. I don’t know; he has yet to show me his medal or whatever it is they get. You know, Tommy is just a guy I met, and we hit it off. Nothing too outrageous.”

“Is it serious?” Again, another question from Nick.

Louis sighed in annoyance, and Rose quickly picked up on her son’s discomfort on the subject of Tommy. “Let’s see if they have dessert,” Rose changed the subject and tried to wave over their waitress.

“Have you met him, Louis?” asked Nick turning towards his son.

Rolling her eyes, Rose interceded, “No, he has not met Tommy.”

“And I don’t want to,” Louis mumbled under his breath.

“Hey, here is an idea, how we don’t talk about Tommy, okay,” ordered Rose, and both guys agreed.

After sharing a tiramisu, Rose had enough and was ready to get back home. Nick offered to pay, and Rose didn’t fight him on it. She figured it was his way of showing he had his own money and could provide a meal for them. With their leftovers boxed up, Rose led the way back to Nick’s car. 

“Louis, did you still want to go to the Apple store?” Rose asked him. 

“Can we? I thought you wanted to get back home.”

“I do, but we can get the leftovers in the fridge, and I can take you,” replied Rose. Truthfully, she did not want to go. She had enough excitement for one day.

Suddenly, Nick piped in, “I can take him if you feel like staying home.”

Rose turned around to look at Louis, “Is that okay with you?”

“That’s fine,” answered Louis, happily. He was excited to get to spend some alone time with his dad.

Nick parked in front of the house. Rose and Louis and got out of the car. He handed the pizza boxes to Rose and got in the front seat. “I’ll see you late, sweetie. By Nick. Take care.”

“Bye, Rosie. Talk to you later.”

Rose waved them off and walked towards the house. She breathed a sigh of relief upon entry. She went upstairs to undress and put on a pair of comfortable sweats and sweater. All Rose wanted to do was relax. 

Looking at the clock, it was only 3:30 PM. Lunch with Nick felt like it went on longer. As Rose was about to settle herself on the couch to watch television, the doorbell rang. “Now, who the Hell is that?” 

“Fucking ‘ell, people. It’s Easter Sunday, for God’s sake.” She walked to the front door and opened it to find none other than Tommy Shelby. 

“Tommy, what are you doing here?” inquired Rose, totally not expecting it to be him. 

Clearing his throat, Tommy shuffled on his feet. He looked down, then up at Rose. “I…I needed to get out and away. It was all too much.” 

Rose was confused by what Tommy was telling her. She motioned for Tommy to come inside, and he obliged. “What do you mean it was all too much? Are you okay?”

Guiding Tommy to the couch, Rose sat down next to him. She was concerned since she had never seen Tommy like this before. It was as if he was lost.

Tommy sighed, “I was at my sister’s house. Everyone was there, my brothers, their wives and kids, Aunt Polly and her husband, his kids. Everyone had someone but me. I was alone. Charlie was there, of course, but it if feels like the bond we once had is dwindling. He doesn’t need me. I watched him play with his cousins and interact with his aunts and uncles and realized that my son is better off without me.”

Rose was shocked at Tommy’s words. She scooted closer to him and placed a supported hand on his knee. “Tommy, no. That is not true. Of course, your son needs you. You are his father. You’re his family.”

“He has other family members who can give him the love and attention he deserves. Maybe I should have listened to Grace’s parents and had Charlie live with them.”

“No. Tommy, listen to me,” Rose began and made Tommy look at her. “Charlie is your son. You love him. You told me that you love him. He is a part of you and Grace. If you give Charlie up, you will regret it. Then you truly will lose him.”

“It would be better for him….”

“No, it would not. It would only scar that child for the rest of his life. He will feel that you abandoned him,” Rose stated firmly. “You’re not thinking clearly. It’s a holiday. We all get weird when we are forced to hang around family members. Just stay here for a while and relax.”

Rose found that her hand moved from Tommy’s knee to his hand sitting back on the couch. He was holding on tight as if he was afraid Rose would disappear. She used her other hand to cover his. Rose wanted Tommy to know that she was not going anywhere. Taking in Tommy’s appearance, he was dressed in blue jeans, a black sweater, and black boots. It was the most casual look Rose had ever seen Tommy. She was always used to seeing him in suits. It was a nice change. However, the look on his face was one of sadness and defeat. 

“Tell me what you need, Tommy?” Rose asked. She pulled Tommy closer to her and wrapped an arm around him. “Tell me how I can make it better,” she crooned in his ear and ran her fingers through his hair. 

What did Tommy want? He was unsure. A part of Tommy didn’t want to feel always in control. That he could let go and be in the moment. That’s what he wanted; he wanted to be in the moment with Rose. Just the two of them, sitting together. “I just want to sit here, with you, Rose. That’s all I want right now. I don’t want to think about anything.”

Kissing the top of Tommy’s head, Rose leaned her head on his. “Okay, we can do that, Tommy. I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here for you.”

[spiderman-homecomeme]

day five - the baby-sitters club

ROOMMATES AU

A/N: DAY FIVE WOO!!! get ready for some softness!! This fic was very strongly inspired by the fact that for quarantine, I’ve been watching my sister’s two kids for her while she works from home. But instead of giving MJ a two year old and a nine month old, I thought I’d give her a baby and Peter. So two babies. 

Thanks @spideychelleweek​ again!!

Enjoy 5.1k of FLUFF, BABIES, and oh my GOD they were roommates

Read here or on AO3

-

come home

baby 

The text messages stare back up at him, taunting; the three words laughing maniacally as he tries to figure out what it all means, what his roommate of nearly two-and-a-half years MJ means when she sends him something so straightforward, yet still so cryptic.

There’s no chance in the world that she means what he’s thinking she means… that the gutter his mind immediately swan-dives into is in any way the right place to be. MJ, blunt and honest as she is, isn’t someone who just puts herself out there so forwardly.

He’s seen her flirt, and frankly, she’s almost as bad at it as he is. 

Granted, she’s been successful a few more times than he has, but still. 

In the area of romance and relationships, MJ might as well have that same Parker-Luck.

He realizes mid-swing that he still hasn’t sent any reply. He responds with an appropriate amount of question marks—three to be exact—before his body seems to move on its own accord, cutting off his early Saturday-afternoon patrol short by about half-an-hour and swinging him home at an almost embarrassing speed.

When, his phone pings again.

please I need you

At that, he clumsily misses a shot, forgetting who and where he is, stomach flipping as he hits free-fall for a fraction of a second before catching himself. 

His next thought is that this all has to be some accident. Perhaps it’s for someone else; perhaps she knows another Peter, another person she has under “Loser” in her phone. And, weirdly enough, the thought of someone else being so lovingly given that title brings with it a strange feeling in his chest. 

Or maybe he’s just completely misunderstanding the statement, which wouldn’t be all that unusual for him. After all, it’s damn near impossible to get someone’s true meaning in a text message. Sarcasm can fall flat when read. The difference between a period and an exclamation point can be monumental. The list goes on. 

Though, Peter likes to think in his years of being MJ’s friend, plus the two-and-a-half of being her roommate, that he’s come to know her pretty well, that he’s got all of her phrases and mannerisms tucked away in the “MJ” file in his brain. 

Still, after years of friendship, he’d be dumb to think she’d have run out of ways to surprise him. 

But what would he even do if a) MJ meant everything literally and b) it wasn’t some accident and she actually, honestly, truly meant it for him?

Really. What would he even do? He has no idea.

He starts to wonder if maybe it’s code for something else when he nearly splats face-first into his fifth-story window, almost losing himself completely in his thoughts. Sliding the window open as quickly as possible, he practically falls into his room, not caring about whether he’s being silent  or not. (MJ found out his secret years ago, even before they were really even friends.) He nearly trips over his suit as it flies off, and he stumbles as he yanks on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt from the night before. 

Without another thought, he bursts out of his room, following the sound of pots and pans clanging in the kitchen. 

What he finds, however, isn’t something he’d ever considered in a million years. 

MJ’s there alright, standing in front of the open fridge, searching through the various fruits and vegetables. A perfectly normal occurrence. Nothing to be concerned about. 

Only there’s a slight difference. 

There’s a baby resting comfortably on her hip, one of its tiny hands reaching out to grab at the stray locks of hair falling from MJ’s ponytail as she ducks her head. 

“Uh…” Peter starts, the confusion just coming right out of him. “Hi?”

MJ barely even registers that Peter’s even there. “Oh hey, man.” She’s the very essence of nonchalance as she places some deli-sliced turkey and pepper jack cheese on the counter, her other hand instinctively coming up to stop the baby from grabbing any of it. 

At his bewildered silence, she finally meets his gaze, ignoring the infant in her grasp desperately trying to get its chubby hands on the jar of mayo. “What’s up?”

come home

baby

Peter opens his mouth to speak, but finds that nothing comes out at first. He blows out a puff of air through his lips. “I was—I was gonna ask about… your... text…?” He pauses again, his brow furrowed as he glances between her and the tiny human on her hip. “...But I think I understand now.” He huffs out a laugh. 

“Oh,” MJ nods, adjusting her grip as she closes the refrigerator door with her foot. “Yeah. That.” 

Peter eyes her expectantly. A beat passes. 

“What?” She asks innocently, as if she wasn’t just holding a random baby in their kitchen. 

“You wanna…” Peter gestures to her, his finger going back and forth between her and the infant. “Explain… The baby?”

“Oh, yeah. Sorry, my bad.” She goes to the pantry to grab the loaf of bread before turning to look at him again. “This is my son,” she deadpans. “I didn’t tell you?”

“MJ—”

“—you’re the father.”

Peter only returns with an unblinking, unimpressed stare. 

“I adopted him this morning.”

Peter blinks.

MJ waits a moment before apparently giving up the joke. “Okay, fine.” She rolls her eyes. “This is my nephew, Oliver. He’s eight months old, and my sister asked me to watch him for the day. I thought the text I sent was pretty clear, though.” There’s a faint smirk on her lips as she says that last bit, an expression that never fails to make Peter’s face warm. 

“I mean, it wasn’t,” Peter responds, returning her joking expression, his mind flashing back to the panic he was in not five minutes ago. “But it’s whatever.” He looks down at the baby in her arms, his smirk melting into a wide, easy smile. “Hi, Oliver!” 

Little Oliver stares blankly for a moment before turning to bury his face in MJ’s shoulder. 

And it’s the fact that Peter doesn’t immediately get a smile in return that makes him feel like literal human garbage. 

MJ seems to notice his disappointment. “It’s okay,” She says, bouncing the little one slightly. “Oliver’s kinda iffy with strangers at first. He’ll warm up to you.”

Hmm, sounds familiar, Peter thinks. 

A stretch of silence falls over the room, Oliver breaking it with a string of babbles consisting of only “guy” and the occasional “buh,” as he smacks at MJ’s shoulder, his other hand reaching for her hair once again. 

“Need any help?” Peter asks, remembering her last text to him, and also seeing the pained expression on her face as Oliver successfully gets a fistful of her curls and tugs it toward his slobbery mouth. 

“Um, yeah, actually,” MJ puts her sandwich makings down before walking over and holding her nephew out to him, simultaneously trying to free her hair from his tiny, vice grip. “Can you take him while I make my lunch?” 

Peter pauses a moment, eyeing the two of them before carefully holding his hands out. “Uh, sure...” 

MJ doesn’t miss the trepidation in his tone, but she also doesn’t seem to address it. Instead, she just hands him the baby, not waiting to see if he’s ready or anything. 

Luckily, Peter’s reflexes are fast, and he’s able to hang on to little Oliver, even if it is slightly awkward. Both of his arms are wrapped around the small torso, the eight month old pushing back against his chest, letting out a frustrated whine. The pleading expression on Peter’s face as he turns to face MJ again causes her to huff out a sudden laugh. 

Peter moves one of his hands to support the head, though he feels more and more that he’s losing control of the baby in his arms that desperately wants to look around the room. 

Again, MJ puts her ingredients down, making her way back over. “Just… hold him under his butt.” Gently, she guides Peter’s hands with her own to a more comfortable position, a touch under any normal circumstances would make him question his sanity. “He’s old enough to hold himself up, so you don’t need to like, support the back of his head or anything.”

Having never had much experience with babies—no little siblings, cousins, or his own nieces and nephews—this is entirely uncharted territory for Peter. His only interactions with littles have been through his work as Spider-Man. While it’s true that he’s saved one or two from burning buildings, this is something entirely different. 

And it becomes abundantly clear that Oliver can still sense the insecurity, even as Peter’s hold improves, when he starts letting out quiet, fussy whimpers. “Ahhh,” Peter panics for a moment, eyes wide as he looks to MJ for help, before adjusting his grip again, allowing the baby into a more natural position. 

“See? Super easy,” MJ says as she cuts her sandwich in half. 

Neither boy seems completely at ease with the other.

“I guess,” Peter replies, lightly bouncing on his feet. “Need any more help besides this?”

“Sure.” MJ looks up from her lunch before taking a bite. “But don’t think this means you’re getting any of my paycheck,” she jokes through a mouthful of turkey sandwich. “This isn’t some Baby-Sitters Club shit, alright?” 

Peter gives a firm nod. "Understood."

“Okay, well. Here’s the rundown,” She says as she finishes her lunch and begins to make her way into the living room. “My sister will be back tonight at 6:30. Before then, he needs to eat and sleep about every three hours. Last bottle was… thirty minutes ago? So he’ll need another one at about… two-ish, and then a nap right after.”

While she’s talking, rattling off the to-do list, the softest smile forms on Peter’s face as he listens and follows her. 

“And then, of course, we’ll have to change his diaper a lot, give him a new one before and after his nap and…” She notices her roommate staring, his eyes tinted with humor. “What?”

Peter coughs, clearing his throat, the tips of his ears turning an embarrassing shade of pink, though his smile never leaves. “Oh, uh, nothing. You just… you seem to have this down to a science. Like you care. A lot.”

She jerks her head back in mild surprise. “Well, yeah. He’s my nephew. And I told my sister he’d be back in one piece.”

“That’s fair,” Peter concedes.

“Plus, I’m not you,” she teases. “I don’t half-ass jobs.”

“Hey!” Peter’s eyes narrow at her, and he brings a hand to his chest, wounded, but he can’t seem to drop the dopey little grin her teasing brings. 

“In the meantime—” MJ sits down on the ground, motioning for Peter to follow suit. “—we can just play with him.”

Peter nods, though he struggles to find a way down that’s comfortable for both him and Oliver. He wonders if he should put the baby down first? Or if it’s completely safe to just sit. And again, his hesitation is clear, both to Oliver and to MJ. 

“Dude, just put him down.” She says, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. 

“Yeah—Yeah, I—” Peter shifts on his feet. “I got that part.”

Oliver lets out the beginning of an anxious cry.

With another awkward side-step, Peter seems to figure it out, either from actually piecing it together or from not wanting the tiny human in his arms to start screaming, he’s not sure. He gently—and perhaps with an overwhelming amount of caution—places the eight month old on the ground. Oliver, still crying, glances around frantically. His wails stop almost immediately, his face lighting up, positively beaming when his eyes meet MJ’s. 

Michelle only gives him half-a-smirk and there’s a big, happy grin on his chubby face.

Oliver’s eyes move from hers after a beat, darting around the room curiously before landing on Peter. 

Peter puts on a silly smile. “Hey, buddy!” He greets in his best impression of a baby-talk voice. 

Though Oliver seems to be mildly fascinated by this new stranger, his expression shows that he’s less than impressed at the attempt.

And looking up, Peter sees the same look on MJ’s face.

Michelle, however, seems to take pity on her poor roommate, swooping in to rescue him from further embarrassment in front of a literal eight month old child. “He really likes when you blow raspberries at him,” MJ offers. “He’ll either laugh or do one back. It’s cute.”

Peter nods, though he doesn’t try.

MJ sits forward, getting her nephews attention, sticking her tongue out and letting out a harsh puff of air. As if on cue, Oliver lets out one of quite possibly the cutest sounds Peter’s ever heard. The baby’s eyes widen first, mouth forming a tiny little circle before he breaks into giggles, eyes barely open, his smile wide and gummy. When she does it a second time, his hands fly to his face, curled into tiny little fists. 

Peter has to physically hold back the audible awwww that threatens to just come right out of him at the sight. 

It takes a third time for Oliver to blow a raspberry back at MJ. It’s clumsy, and a bit of his drool flies out everywhere, but even then, Michelle’s unable to keep the small grin from tugging at the corner of her mouth. 

It’s when Peter tries, tongue stuck out with some forced air, that little Oliver’s smile slowly fades, his tiny features now fixed into a calculating expression. 

Almost instantly, Peter deflates. 

MJ starts to stand, putting a toy in front of the baby before giving Peter a gentle pat on the shoulder. “It’s okay, tiger. You’ll get ‘em next time.” She stretches her hands high above her head, the action earning another squeal of delight from Oliver. 

Oh, come on! Bare minimum, Peter thinks. 

In fact, almost everything Michelle seems to do gets the same reaction. She’s not a particularly sunny, bubbly person—far from it—but even her blank, impassive stares seem to incite rounds and rounds of uncontrollable giggles from her nephew. 

“Hey, can you watch him while I run to the bathroom?” MJ asks, already walking in that direction. 

“Yeah—yeah,” Peter nods, pressing his lips together. “Totally.”

Oliver doesn’t immediately notice when she’s gone, and he sits there, happily chewing on the soft toy that Michelle had placed in front of him. Though, when he realizes that he’s been left alone with the stranger, he grows restless. 

Peter sees his opportunity. “Hey! Hey Buddy! Hey Oliver!” He says with an overdramatic excitement. Again, he blows a quiet raspberry at the little one, feeling just slightest bit of success when one of the corners of Oliver’s mouth quirks upward for the briefest of moments. 

But the feeling quickly dissipates when Oliver’s attention goes back to the clearly more interesting toy. 

It does rattle, after all. 

Peter sits back on his hands, his mouth pressed into a thin line as he tries to come up with another way to get this dang baby to smile. If he could get him to laugh, bonus points. But now, all he needs is the teeniest, tiniest smile, and maybe he’ll feel like he can actually succeed in life. 

He doesn’t take a second to think about how he’s banking all of his future self-worth on whether or not a baby thinks he’s funny enough. Much less likes him.

But something catches Oliver’s curious eyes, and he turns to look at Peter—or rather, Peter’s hands. Turning his gaze downward, Peter sees that the simple bands of his webshooters—though the ‘shooty’ part of them is put away—are still on his wrists, and the dark silver metal is shining in the pocket of sunlight on the living room floor. 

Oliver lets out an excited, intrigued coo. He leans forward, tiny little noises of exertion coming from his as he starts army crawling to Peter’s place on the floor. 

And really, Peter can’t help himself. He picks Oliver up again, placing him back in a sitting position before taking one of the bands off his wrist. “You wanna see this, buddy?” Peter asks in a gentle tone, holding out the webshooter to the infant. “It looks cool, huh?”

Oliver takes the metal band into his tiny, chubby hands, his mouth set into a little circle, his eyes wide as he shakes the new toy furiously. 

“You like ‘em, little dude?” 

Oliver answers with a loud, excited “Ah!” In the same breath, he brings the webshooter to his mouth. 

And although Peter’s reflexes are fast, he can’t stop the eight month old from chomping on the cold metal between his gums. 

“Oliver!” Peter says, surprised that there’s a laugh underneath his tone. “You’re not supposed to chew on it!”

“What is he chewing on?” MJ’s voice is behind him again as she walks back into the room. 

Peter barely turns around to look at her as he responds. “My webshooter.”

“Oh, my God! Peter, I leave for one second—” Michelle instantly moves to her nephew, taking the metal band from his tiny grasp, setting it on the coffee table before joining them on the floor. “You let him put that in his mouth?”

“He seemed interested in it!” Peter defends. 

“He’s a baby, dude.” MJ stares at him. “He’s interesting in literally everything.”

“Not me…” Peter mutters under his breath before speaking at a normal volume again. “All I did was hand it to him!”

She blinks at him. Once. Twice. “You let him—a baby, who you saw earlier trying to eat my hair—hold your webshooter, not thinking he was going to want to chew on it?”

Peter tilts his head, bottom lip poking out as he shrugs. She has a fair point. He did not think that through. Upon this moment of realization, he flinches, scratching the back of his neck sheepishly. “Sorry.”

And at that, at his evident regret, she seems to soften. A sigh escapes her. “It’s fine, dude.” She laughs. “I’ve definitely let him chew on things that were just as bad before I learned. It was one time, but… I’ve been there.”

“Thanks,” Peter says, holding his head back as he looks at her from the corner of his eye. 

Her gaze shifts around the room, avoiding his for some reason. “No prob.”

The moment, tiny and seemingly insignificant as it is, is ending with another excited, incoherent, attention-demanding yell from the baby in front of them.

They play with Oliver for the rest of the early-afternoon, Peter still never getting anything more than a half-smile, if even that. Michelle always getting them effortlessly, without even trying, her nephew clearly smitten with her. 

And it’s not like Peter’s stopped trying. In fact, he might even say—or rather, he might be influenced by MJ saying—that he’s trying a little too hard maybe. He has tried everything though, it seems. Once he’s more comfortable holding the baby, he tries swinging him up into the air, but that only gets a few, ever so faint, single laughs. Nothing like the giggles that MJ gets out of him. 

Oliver’s even grown to be more comfortable around Peter, no longer glancing around frantically, looking to be rescued when placed in his arms. The baby even holds onto him, something MJ says is one of his little signs that he does indeed “like you.”

So, in theory, Peter should be able to make this baby smile. Make him laugh. 

But, it’s much easier said than done. At least for him. 

When one-thirty rolls around, MJ gets a call from her boss. Nothing to worry about, she says, but one she needs to take outside. 

Peter being much more confident, thinks nothing of it. In fact, he finds it to be the perfect opportunity to really master this whole baby thing. Even with no experience, he’s finding this easier than he’d ever thought. It just comes more naturally to him the more time he spends with Oliver. 

It’s weird in the coolest way. 

There are various, multi-colored blocks on the floor in front of Oliver, one of them between his drooly, chubby hands and in his mouth. He spares a few glances at Peter, once again, only a corner of his mouth quirking upward, though this one does seem to reach his eyes. 

Peter will take that as one of the many steps of an actual win. 

But nothing else seems to come out of it, Oliver just chewing on his block while Peter sits there in silent contemplation. Not wanting to try anything new, Peter goes back to the initial method. The classic, farty raspberries. 

Peter blows one at him, Oliver taking the block out of his mouth to flail his arms the slightest bit. 

Now, that’s something, Peter thinks. 

Peter does it again, earning the same, cute reaction; arms waving a little harder this time. At the third time, he doesn’t get the giggle he’s looking for, but an energetic squeal before Oliver sticks his little tongue out and blows a raspberry right back at him. 

In Oliver’s excitement at the fourth time, he flails a little too hard, losing his balance and tumbling over to the right and onto the soft carpet. His head just barely bumps the bright green block, and at first, his expression is blank and slightly confused. 

And then, there’s a second; one where Peter hears the sharp, deep intake of breath.

Oliver lets out a scared, long wail. It trails off, hiccuping as he lets out another scream. Peter instantly moves to him, taking the baby into his arms and holding him to his chest. His hand rests at the back of his small head, and he softly shh’s him, murmuring gentle, if not a little bit panicked, words of reassurance. 

“It’s okay, buddy! You’re okay!” Peter’s attempt at comforting the crying baby is valiant, but it doesn’t pay off. His voice comes out too shaky, no matter how quiet it is. 

When the door opens, MJ shutting it behind her, Peter looks up as if to thank whatever higher being that graciously decided to take pity on him. 

MJ’s brow is pinched together, her expression concerned. “What happened?” 

Peter’s heart seems to have fallen into his stomach, and his stomach into his butt. “Uh…” He takes a breath. “He—he fell and... hit his head on—on one of the blocks.” 

MJ holds her hands out to take the baby that’s too distracted by its own crying to even notice. “It’s okay,” she says to Oliver (and to Peter). “It happens sometimes. That’s how he learns to keep his balance.” She rocks back and forth, speaking softly to little Oliver as he clings desperately to her shirt, crying into her collarbone. “Auntie MJ, I fell over,” She speaks for him in a gentle tone, quiet enough that Peter probably wouldn’t be able to hear without his super senses. “It was so scary!” 

The crying soon turns to quiet whimpers that line up perfectly with her rocks from side-to-side; it’s almost as if he’s telling her all about what happened. 

Peter watches, a smile forming on his lips at the gentleness coming from his friend before him in spite of the near-crippling fear he’d just experienced moments before. He’s never really seen MJ this soft before, speaking with such tenderness. A few times, maybe, when she’s seen an animal; a dog, a cat, a bumblebee, a dragonfly, even the wayward spider, but nothing like this before. 

The crying eventually stops, and little Oliver looks up at MJ. She smiles down at him, lightly squeezing his sides under his armpits, and a tiny grin breaks across his features as he reaches his chubby hands out to her cheeks. 

MJ can feel Peter’s eyes and smile burning into her. 

“What?” She asks, perhaps a little defensive. 

“Nothing!” Peter says immediately, eyes wide, hands raised in surrender. “Just… Interesting—Nice, I mean, seeing you… with him.”

She raises a curious, almost judging brow, still rocking on her feet. 

“I mean—” Peter huffs out a laugh. “You don’t really like people all that much.”

“I mean… I don’t know. When you think about it, babies aren’t really people yet?” MJ reasons, scrunching her face playfully at the baby in her arms. “Like, of course they’re physically people, but… They aren’t terrible, yet. And I think they should be rewarded for that.”

Peter laughs again, not able to stop the fond shake of his head as MJ blows another raspberry at her nephew. 

Not long after, two o’clock comes. MJ once again leaves Peter to watch Oliver while she goes and heats up a bottle. Thankfully, nothing happens this time around. In fact, it’s pretty uneventful. Peter sits across from the baby, showing him how to stack a set of colorful rings on a wooden stick. 

Of course, he still doesn’t get a smile, but… it’s fine.

MJ returns just minutes later, Oliver’s eyes going wide, cooing in excitement, when he sees what’s in her hand. He seems to dance in place, his limbs flailing about when she goes to pick him up. “Alright, my dude, let’s get you some milk and then a nap.”

“He doesn’t seem super tired, though?” Peter asks rather than states.

Again, as if on cue, even amidst his sheer excitement, Oliver lets out a yawn, bringing his tiny fists up to rub at his eyes.

MJ raises a brow that speaks volumes. 

Peter shuts up. 

Peter gets a much need break as MJ feeds her nephew, both of them scrolling on their phones as the little one practically inhales his meal. But soon, as he gets to where there’s about a fourth of the bottle left, his small eyelids seem to grow heavier and heavier, and he struggles to keep them both open. And even sooner after that, as he finishes the last drop, little snoozes can be heard as he falls fast asleep on his aunt. 

Peter looks up then, just a few moments later, having not been paying attention, seeing that MJ’s shifting to laying down on the couch, her nephew cuddled up beside her. Her own eyes are closed, her arms above her head as she starts to drift off. 

And at that, he takes a chance, moving as quietly as he can to go stand above the slumbering duo. He pulls his phone out, swiping to the camera, taking a single picture, when MJ cracks an eye open, feeling his presence. 

“What are you doing?” She asks sleepily. 

Peter barely looks up from his phone, lips pulled back into a mischievous grin. “Getting blackmail. In case I need it.”

“Oh?” MJ questions, unable to keep from closing her eyes again.  

“Yeah.” Peter puts his phone away. “Imagine what everyone would think seeing big, tough, mean Michelle Jones cuddling with a baby.”

MJ rolls her eyes. “Come on. You’ve done way more embarrassing things. This is nothing.”

Peter nods. “Fair.”

“Plus,” MJ continues, though she can’t stop the playful smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “I can just murder you if you ever show that to anyone. No biggie.”

Peter covers his mouth as he lets out a surprised snort. 

--

“Thank you so much for watching him!” 

Peter hears a new voice from the living room. He steps over the threshold, seeing Michelle’s sister standing in the front doorway, empty baby carrier next to her feet, Oliver happily on her hip. 

MJ shrugs. “No problem.” Out of the corner of her eye, she notices Peter. “Oh, Lara, this is my roommate, Peter. He helped out.”

Lara’s smile widens as she reaches her free hand out to shake his. “Hi Peter. Thanks for helping my dear sister take care of this little monster.” She punctuates that statement with a tickle in her son’s side, earning a hiccuping giggle. 

Peter can’t help but grin. “Anytime.”

“But just because he helped doesn’t mean you should pay him,” MJ cuts in before throwing a teasing wink to her friend. 

Lara ignores her sister’s comment. “Peter, just find me on facebook, send me your venmo, we’ll figure it out. Simple.”

“No, no.” Peter waves her off. “That’s really—that’s okay,” he chuckles nervously, gaze flitting between the older sister and his roommate. 

Lara shrugs. “We’ll figure it out,” she repeats. She takes one of Oliver’s hands in hers. “Alright, Oliver. Wave bye-bye to your Aunt MJ and… Peter.” She shrugs again, this time more apologetic. 

MJ waves back at her nephew, moving forward to give him a little boop on his chubby cheeks. “See ya later, bud. Till the next time.” 

The baby grins, wide and happy. 

Peter waves, too, putting on his best, biggest, most genuine smile yet. “Bye bye, Oliver!” 

And finally.

FINALLY.

The wonderful, adorable, gummy little grin of validation that Peter wanted so badly stretches across the little one’s features. Oliver turns his head, bashfully burying his face into his mother’s hair. She smiles, putting her son into the carrier. 

“Thanks, guys,” Lara offers with a final wave, closing the door behind her. 

The apartment is quiet, the click of the shutting door echoing between the two roommates as they stand there. Peter’s the first to look over; he doesn’t turn his head, sneaking little glances from the corner of his eye. 

And he sees MJ do the same once. 

“Well, that was fun,” he offers lamely, rocking back on his heels. “We made a good team!”

“Yup,” MJ agrees, pressing her lips together. 

He turns to her. “For real, though. I had a blast,” he says earnestly. 

She turns to him. “Me, too,” she replies, and he swears he can detect a hint of shyness to her tone. 

And for a moment, they just stare at each other, neither one of them saying anything. The words unsaid hanging between them like a thick blanket. 

Peter clears his throat. “MJ… Today… Kinda got me thinking—”

“—Oh my, God. Yes. We should have a baby together.”

Her words nearly knock him right out of his head and into the astral plane. If he were a cartoon, he’s sure he’d have those damn stars and cuckoo circling his head like a giant anvil had just landed on top of him. 

“What?!”

She breaks, her laughter filling the apartment. “Dude, I’m kidding. I’m kidding. Geez.”

Peter breathes out a laugh, nodding slowly. 

He really had been right, he thinks as she playfully ruffles his hair and walks past him into the kitchen, asking what he wants to do for dinner; he’s right that even after all the years he’s spent with MJ, she never fails to run out of ways to mess with him. 

“Yeah…” His mouth twists as he tries to hide his smile, glancing briefly at the door, then at the toys that had been left at their apartment just in case there was another day of babysitting. He laughs, mostly to himself. “We’d be horrible parents anyway.”

[bellemorte180]

Compromise Coffee

Caroline Forbes has a coffee problem; or better described as a crush on the cute barista, Klaus, who knows how to make her large, non-fat latte with a caramel drizzle and two extra espresso shots just right. After years of coming to Compromise Coffee, Caroline thought he would have made a move by now, but he hasn't. Caroline has decided that it is time for her to make the move herself.

Written for June 2020 Bingo- prompt Coffee Shop @klaroline-events

Compromise Coffee

The smell of coffee wafted through the small shop. The coffee at Compromise Coffee was astonishing and far better than anything that could be bought at Starbucks; and half the price. The taste of the coffee was bold and dedicant; the lattes always have the exact amount of foam to coffee ratio that pleased Caroline. They did not just serve coffee or fancy lattes, they also specialized in teas (literally having tea sets that can be brought out for the real picky tea drinkers), pleasing both coffee and tea drinkers alike. From the moment she had stepped into the small coffee shop her freshman year of college, she was hooked.

It was a relatively new shop then, having only been open for a year or so and located near Whitmore College. It had taken off and became a local student hot spot almost instantly. It was always crowed but never overly noisy. It had hard wood flooring with high ceilings and tall windows that let natural light in. It felt industrial but cozy at the same time. The staff was friendly, and Caroline never had to return an order; and Caroline had no issues with doing so if her order was just slightly off. If her large, non-fat latte with a caramel drizzle and two extra espresso shots was not perfect, Caroline could become cranky. Yet it was rare for her to have to return any of her drinks at Compromise.

Although, that might be because there was only one barista that even made Caroline’s lattes anymore. Klaus. He was always behind the counter when she stepped into the shop and by the time, she made it to the counter, her drink was ready for her; the word Sweetheart written in place of her name. At first, when Caroline was nothing more than a sweet and innocent college freshman, she had been offended. She was still in a long-distance relationship with her high school sweetheart who she thought she was going to marry when he had written her name on the cup the first time.

To say that relationship crashed and burned was an understatement.

Klaus, the barista who purposely continued to label her drink as Sweetheart, even five years later, became an infuriating fixture in her weekly routine. Between his exasperating smile, refusal to write her actual name on the cup and the fact that he made her drink exactly how she liked it made Caroline confused on whether she loved or hated him. At first, she would swear it was in the latter category because, while he never pushed her or demanded anything from her, especially after she made it clear that she was in a serious relationship, made his interest well known. Even though she was with Tyler, Caroline could not help but be flattered by it; and that only made her angrier.

Her irritation at him lasted for literal years before she began to soften towards him.

It was actually Klaus who helped her get over the fact that Tyler cheated on her; and had been for years she had come to learn. She spent the majority of her college career with that dickhead, practically celibate, and he had been screwing every girl in sight. When Klaus realized why she was sitting by herself in the back of the coffee shop crying, all drinks were on the house and even sent over the chocolate scones she liked for free. He listened to her cry more than once and even wrote sweet messages on her cup when he saw she was upset.

The words ‘You’re strong, beautiful and full of light’ became one of her favorites.

After she pulled herself from her heartbreak and banged Tyler’s memory from her system, she had thought that maybe Klaus would make a move. She no longer felt guilty for the way seeing his perfect scroll of Sweetheart made her heart flutter. Or how his smirk was softer when it was directed to her. Their banter drew her in instead of infuriating her. She secretly liked how he pushed her buttons but at the same time he would bend over backwards to make her smile; adding just a tiny bit more foam than he would for other customers or going heavy on the caramel drizzle. Caroline had thought he would ask her out or make some sort of move; but he never did.

“Earth to Caroline.” Bonnie’s voiced pulled Caroline from her musings. Bonnie was waving her hand in front of her face while wearing an amused smirk on her face. “Is it the early mornings at the news station that have you zoned out or is it because you’re drooling over Klaus again?”

“I wasn’t drooling.” Caroline replied heatedly while touching her lips with her fingers. They were dry. “And I wasn’t looking at Klaus. I was just thinking about work things while staring off into space in his general direction. I wasn’t staring at him. Nope. Not at all.”

“Right. Of course, you weren’t.” Bonnie snorted, shooting a look towards Elena. Caroline looked towards her other friend, hoping that Elena would back her up. The three of them were sitting at their usual table that the claimed every Monday, Wednesday and Friday mornings; late mornings. Caroline was working as a news reporter for the local station but seeing that she was only a year out of college, she got worst shift possible. She was at work every morning by 3 am and finished her day by ten in the morning. Given the fact that Elena was in medical school and Bonnie was still taking grad courses at Whitmore, their coffee meet ups were really the only time they were able to spend time with one another. “Why don’t you just ask him out already? It’s been what? Two years that you’ve been drooling over him? Longer if you count you having that massive crush on him while you were still dating douchebag.”

“Bonnie!” Elena exclaimed. “Caroline is not interested in Klaus and I don’t think he is interested in her either.”

“Really Elena?” Bonnie asked in a disbelieving tone. Bonnie reached over and picked up Caroline’s to-go mug and placed it in front of Elena; the word Sweetheart clearly visible. “Not to mention he knows her name because he greets her with “Morning Caroline” every time he sees her, something he doesn’t do with either of us and not to mention he has Caroline’s ridiculous coffee order memorized and perfected. If that doesn’t scream interest, I don’t know what does.”

“My coffee order is not ridiculous!”

“I just don’t think Caroline and Klaus would work out.” Elena said and her passionate tone took Caroline aback. “I mean think about it. Caroline is a news reporter. Yes, her hours are shitty, but she is just starting out. One day she is going to be a kick ass news anchor. Klaus is a career barista who has been working at a coffee shop for at least five years. How would that work?”

“Wow Elena…” Caroline muttered, amazed at how judgmental her friend could be. Even Bonnie was looking at Elena with a slacked jaw, surprise written over her face. “Tone down the bitchiness a bit.”

“I’m just saying that you could do better.” Elena told her, tossing her a look of sincerity. “I want you to be happy and I don’t want you to end up like you did when Tyler cheated on you.”

“Um, being a barista does not mean that Klaus would cheat on me.” Caroline retorted. She did not even know if Klaus and her would hit it off; or even if she would ask him out. She wanted to and had to admit that Bonnie was right; she should have asked him out ages ago. However, she was terrified that he would say no.

“I think there is someone better out there for you.”

“Elena…please do not say what I think you’re about to say.”

“I think that if you gave Stefan a chance...”

“No!” Caroline all but shouted. By this point Bonnie had her fingers on her forehead as though she was trying to ease away a migraine. “How many times Elena do I have to tell you that I am not interested in Stefan. I do not want to go out with him. It would be like making out with my brother and I’m not George R.R. Martin who gets off on that stuff!”

“Just think about it though!” Elena exclaimed with a dreamy look on her face. “I’m engaged to Damon. Bonnie is with Jeremy and if you and Stefan got together, our circle of friends would be complete. All our kids would be cousins and would grow up together. It would be perfect!”

“Yeah….no.” Caroline just shook her head and shot Bonnie a look. It was clear that Bonnie still had not confided into Elena that she was thinking about ending her relationship with Jeremy. Caroline did not blame her. If it was any indication on how she assumed that Caroline should fall in love with Stefan, it would not go over well. “For the last time, I am not going to pursue a relationship with Stefan. Drop it already.”

“What would you and Klaus even talk about? Like, do you know anything about him?” Elena snapped at her, clearly irritated by Caroline’s response. The latter rolled her eyes but refused to discuss the issue anymore.

“That is the purpose of a date Elena.” Bonnie told her calmly. “To get to know one another. He clearly likes her. He watched her morning shows-“

“He watches my morning show?!” Caroline asked bewildered. “How would you even know that? I’m rarely ever on it and am just a fill in when one of the other reporters can’t work.”

“I popped in here one morning before my early class. You know, the one with professor St. John?”

“The hot British one? The one you want to ‘TA’ for next year?” Caroline asked.

“Yeah. That one.” Bonnie replied, smirking ever so slightly while Elena scowled. “Anyway, I came into a grab coffee to go and it was the 6:00 am news cast, I think. You were doing some story about the kid who got stuck in the toy machine.”

“Quality news there.” Caroline muttered. While she did not mind doing fluff pieces, she had to start somewhere, the only reason she got that piece was because her coworker Andi had to fill in for the star news anchor Cami called in sick. Caroline took over Andi’s piece and she finally got to do a report that wasn’t at 4:00 am.

“Wait. If it was six in the morning, why was a kid stuck in a toy machine?” Elena asked, confused. Caroline knew that Elena did not watch her show, mainly because she was usually at the hospital by that point, so Caroline tried not to take offense, but her irritation was already at an all-time high at that moment.

“It was a small convivence store and the owner couldn’t find a babysitter that day, so she brought the kid into work with her. She thought he was sleeping and when she went to check on him, he was in the claw machine.” Caroline looked back at Bonnie. “Okay, so he watched my show once while opening the store. Does not mean he likes me.”

“The fact that he turned it off the moment you were off screen says differently.” Bonnie smirked. “And he got bright red when he saw me. Had to go in the back. Liv made my mocha for me that morning. It was adorable.”

“Still. Do you honestly think you can be with someone who has no ambition? Five years working in a coffee shop is a long time. Most people we know who have worked here have moved on.” Elena pointed out. Caroline and Bonnie just shared a look. It was true that most people they have seen worked here no longer do and have moved on. Although, they were not particularly close with any of those people either. “Like, what if he is an artist or something and his dream is to become the next Picasso? It would explain why he works in a coffee shop and not something better.”

“Wow Elena, and they call me the judgmental one.” Caroline snapped at her. Caroline wanted to continue on a tirade against Elena, stating that if Klaus did want to become the next Picasso and was working at Compromises in order to make ends meet, it would not stop her from going out with him. However, at that moment Liv, one of the baristas, came up and placed a plate with a few brownies on them.

“Hey guys, Klaus said that these needed to be pulled, they are from yesterday, and instead of tossing them he said to go ahead and bring them up to you guys.” Liv told them in a brisk manner. Liv wasn’t the nicest barista they ever had but she made a mean latte and didn’t question the free things that Caroline tended to get. She minded her own business; her brother Luke was the exact opposite. He also worked at the coffee shop but was nosey and the worst gossip; always gushing about his boyfriend of the minute. Caroline adored him.

“Well that was mighty sweet of Klaus.” Caroline looked toward Elena with a wide smile. “Wouldn’t you say Elena?”

“Liv?” Bonnie ignored Caroline and turned toward the barista. Liv, who had been about to walk away paused. “I was wondering if you could tell me a little about Klaus? Like what is he like to work with? What is he into? Is he single?”

“Why? Going to ask him out?” Liv smirked at her, but her eyes flickered to Caroline. “He is great actually. Flexible and completely understanding that most of us are college students, so he is always willing to switch up the schedule. As far as hobbies, no idea but he loves this place like it was his first born. He is here at four in the morning almost every day. He makes the bake goods from scratch so I guess you could say baking is a hobby-“

“Wait. Why is he here every day so early? And why is he making the schedule? Is he like the manager or something?” Elena butted in, as though Liv was about to make a point for her. Caroline couldn’t help but roll her eyes at her friend. She was at the point that she would ask Klaus out just to spite Elena; ignoring the fluttering feeling she got at the thought of actually going on a date with him.

“I mean, sure. I guess you could say that. He owns the place so, yeah, I would call him our manager.”

“Wait he owns this place?” Elena said. “No. No. The guy in the suit is the owner. I’ve seen him. He pops in every now and then, tells Klaus what to do and then goes in the back to what I’m assuming is his office.”

“Elijah? He is Klaus’s brother, but he isn’t the owner. He comes around from time to time and double checks the books as a favor to Klaus. He is in finance or something, but this place is Klaus’s. He put his blood sweat and tears into the shop.” Liv chuckled. “Although, now that you mention it, Elijah is a tea drinker and Klaus probably does the whole specialty tea thing as a favor Elijah, who hates coffee.”

“Huh. Why would a man who hates coffee open a coffee shop?” Caroline ask in an uppity tone. She turned to Elena, who appeared very annoyed, and gave her perfect pageant smile. “I guess the lifetime barista just got upgraded to small business owner.”

“As for your other question...” Liv chimed in again. Her eyes flickered to Caroline again but turned back to Bonnie. “Klaus is single, but he is desperately hung up on someone. Like, he has it bad. Really bad.” Liv debated with herself. “If she were to ask him out, the answer would most definitely would be yes.”

With that, Liv walked away from the table, leaving the three women staring after her; each with different reaction. Elena appeared irritated while Bonnie was beaming. Caroline was flushed red at the implication and her mind going a mile a minute.

“I’m going to do it.” Caroline decided, standing from the table. Bonnie grinned at her with pride while Elena was trying to tell her it was a bad idea; Caroline ignored her. Instead, she looked over to the coffee bar and saw that Klaus was just wiping down the counter. The shop was slow, and she knew that if she didn’t do it now, she may not have a chance later.

Gathering all her confidence, Caroline strolled over to the counter. Klaus, who was cleaning the espresso machine by the time she reached the counter, perked up at the sight of her. He smiled widely at her and Caroline could not help the fluttering inside her stomach when his dimples became really pronounced.

“Hey Caroline! Another latte?” Klaus asked her and Caroline laughed. She felt her cheeks heat up and it appeared he noticed as well because his smirk just got wider. “I have a new coffee that just came in. It is slightly bolder than you like but trust me, its good.”

“I’m bold….I mean, I like bold coffee.” Caroline mentally cursed herself in embarrassment but pushed forward. “I mean, yes. I never turn down more coffee.” Klaus nodded and she watched him work on making her latte. She had seen him do it a thousand times before, but she let herself watch as he worked, openly admiring him. Part of her wanted him to catch her; just to see that knowing smile on his lips again. When he turned back around and handed the cup to her, it was clear that Klaus knew she was watching. “What, no pet name on the cup?” Klaus laughed and picked up the black marker, writing Sweetheart on the cup. “Much better.”

“Let me know what you think.” Klaus leaned against the counter, waiting for her to take a sip. Caroline locked eyes with him and slowly began drinking the latte. It was bold. Typically, Caroline liked to load her lattes up with sugar and massive amounts of whipped cream, but this had a more a dark taste to it. She wasn’t sure if it was Klaus’s gaze, patiently waiting to her opinion or if it was the coffee itself, but she had never tasted anything better in her life.

“This is really good. You are an artist, but with coffee.” Klaus beamed at her, clearly basking in her praise. Caroline lowered the cup and sat it down on the counter. “I did not just come over here for more coffee.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“And that is…”

“Would you like to have dinner? With me? Like maybe Friday?” Klaus’s eyes grew wide and he didn’t respond. Caroline’s courage slowly began to fade as he didn’t answer. Embarrassment crept up on her face and she picked up her cup again; accepting his silence for what it was. Rejection. “Yeah. Okay. I’m just going to go-“

“No! Wait. Yes. I would love to have dinner with you.” Klaus stated quickly, stopping her from leaving. Caroline’s face lit up happily, but Klaus still appeared confused. “Sorry, I just was not expecting you to ask. I was under the impression that you had a boyfriend.”

“What? No. I don’t.” Caroline gave him a confused look. “I’m single. Like, very single. Why did you think I had a boyfriend?” This time it was Klaus’s turn to seem embarrassed. His dimples became very pronounced and he looked at her with puppy dog eyes that made Caroline’s heart melt. “What?”

“Months back, around Christmas, I might have asked your friend, the one with the long brown hair who always is in scrubs, if you were seeing anyone. She said you were dating Steven and that it was getting serious.”

“Elena told you I was dating my step-dad?”

“I really hope he isn’t your step-dad. I mean he could be, I guess. A bit young but you never know.” Caroline was still giving him a confused look. “Anyway, the guy that comes in sometimes with your friend. The one with too much hair gel.”

“Stefan?”

“Yes. Him. That’s his name.”

“Elena told you I was dating Stefan?” Klaus nodded and Caroline gave a humorless laugh. “So, you would have asked me out at Christmas if my friend didn’t say that I was in a relationship that I was not in. Oh, she is dead. So, dead.”

“I take it that you’re not in a relationship.” Caroline shook her head. The humor slipped from Klaus’s face and Caroline could see that Elena was never going to get into Klaus’s good books; and frankly she could not blame him. “Why would your friend lie?”

“Because she is deranged apparently. Doesn’t matter because after today I will have a funeral to arrange.” Caroline smiled at him. “Just so we are clear, I have never dated Stefan and will never date Stefan. He is like my brother and I find the idea of him in a romantic sense appalling.”

“Good to know.” The dimples were back, and Klaus’s gaze were fixated on her; that rush of excitement flood her body again. “Although, I typically do not like burying dead bodies on a first date.” Caroline gave him a confused look but then remembered her comments about Elena and laughed. “I save that for the third date at least.”

“Well, I guess I will have to hold on homicide until the third date then.”

“I suppose you will.”

“Perfect.” They exchanged a look; the two of them smiling like fools. Klaus reached over and took her cup from her hands and picked up the black marker again. He jotted down a few digits onto the cup and handed it back to her.

“Here is my number. Text me and we can set up a time for Friday.” Caroline nodded and took her cup back. Happily drinking down the glorious liquid. She turned to walk away but paused, turning back.

“Klaus.” He was still standing there, clearly anticipating watching her walk away. He raised his eyebrow in question and Caroline could see how happy he was that she had asked him out. “If for some reason you ever need to ask a friend about me, regarding anything. Ask Bonnie.”

“Trust me Sweetheart. I will not be making that same mistake again.” Caroline smiled widely and this time she did walk away; only looking over her shoulder once or twice to see if Klaus was still watching. He was.

It was only eight months later that Klaus did go to Bonnie for advice. This time it was over a special ring that he was looking at purchasing

[ellaofoakhill]

Xerxes

You don’t have to do this. Hohenheim nodded. They’d repeated this phrase time and again, once he’d told them what he was planning. But he was doing it anyway.

With a pang of guilt, he thought it might have taken too long already. The Dwarf might have gotten there first, thanks to Hohenheim’s cowardice. And the invisible chaos of horror and pain he’d spent a hundred years calming. Now…

Hohenheim smiled. Now they were an ocean, wave upon wave of thought and feeling, capable of coordinating themselves in ways that would’ve been impossible, had Hohenheim not fought to make himself heard, so they could be heard.

The waves of their voices gently rumbled in him now. Most were reluctant. Some were terrified of what they would see; Hohenheim had taken the shortest possible route in his escape, had tried to see as little as possible. A few, the bravest, and the kindest, were with Hohenheim. But they knew what he had been through, the toll he had paid for surviving. It had been them who’d started the refrain.

You don’t have to do this. Hohenheim crested the rise. And saw, dunes and dunes, and dunes away, a pillar in the desert. What he was going to do suddenly struck him, more viscerally than he’d expected.

It had been a conversation he’d inadvertently overheard; couldn’t avoid overhearing. It was Tony who’d started it; he hadn’t known more than ten thousand of them then, and Tony had always been loud. His voice would’ve stuck out anyway, but the familiarity pulled Hohenheim’s attention like a hook.

I miss home. Hohenheim had been about to bite into a chicken leg. He paused; the Xingese bar was quite full, and though he’d gotten a few looks when he walked in, there were just enough foreigners passing through that no one questioned him, and by now he spoke the language well enough to keep from making a scene. He was all but invisible.

Yeah, well… we all do. He didn’t know Marilla at that point, but she assured him later it was she who’d spoken.

But we can’t go back; there’s nothing there for us. Brock had always been one to leave the past in the past.

The whole ocean had quieted, listening; there was the slightest murmur, of hundreds of thousands who no longer had lungs drawing breath.

Xerxes is a ruin by now. Leo; in life he’d looked like a sad lion, and spoke like a sad lamb. It’d just hurt to go back.

Besides, Brock said, would you really be okay with seeing everyone’s… I couldn’t bear to see what’s left.

The ocean went quiet. Though none of them had eyes, Hohenheim had the incredible feeling of thousands upon thousands of them watching him.

He raised the chicken leg to his mouth. The sudden quiet in his mind, compared to the usual din, was both wonderful and terrifying. “What?” And then he realized. And he understood.

No! Sarah had shouted into the quiet ocean; though she’d no body, Hohenheim could perfectly visualize her hands on her hips. We are not putting him through that!

The ocean was in chaos for at least a month. No one ever brought it up again, but Hohenheim couldn’t forget. Dread knotted in his belly. He’d go back. He couldn’t avoid it forever.

Later on, as he learned every single name, every single story, it would be compassion that fueled his commitment to return. But in the first few years—Hohenheim couldn’t lie to himself—it had been mostly guilt. His bones were the only ones nobody needed to bury.

 ***

He started small, camping in a hollow outside one of the outlying villages. You don’t have to do this, they said, as they had said more times than Hohenheim could count.

“I know,” Hohenheim said, “but I want to.”

You do not want to go back, to open up the old wound, Sergis said.

 “No,” Hohenheim said, “I don’t.” In the flummox that followed he continued, “But I do want to set you and the bodies of your loved ones to rest. Even moreso than I want never to go back. Besides,” He stirred the fire, pulling the blankets around him as the cold desert wind stirred through the rocks, “I’m not sure this old wound is healing properly.” He looked down at his hands. “I ran away. I don’t hate myself for it anymore, but I left your bodies here to rot. I ran away, trying to hide my naivete and my cowardice like a child hides the sheets after he wets the bed. So now, I’m going to dig out the infection, abscess by abscess.”

There was a pause in which the ripples of conversation ebbed and flowed. You do know, Hohenheim, Jeremiah said, that only half of the bodies will be ours. The rest are…

“With him.” Hohenheim spat the second word. “Yes, I know.” He looked off over the sand. He slowly turned his head—almost had to force it to turn—until he was looking over the barren remains of Xerxes. “I don’t know what I can do for them; I wish I could say more than that. But whatever I can do, I’ll do it.”

 ***

 He split his time carefully. Hohenheim had to go looking during the day, finding them in the best light, so they could be identified by the souls within him. Of those who had been awake, memories of that night were burnt into their souls forever, and time had done nothing to wear them away. But those who had been asleep—a great many, mostly children; theirs had been the hardest voices for Hohenheim to hear, and the ones he knew he had to take the most care in listening to—were useful as well. They knew whose house was just by the road leading to the capital, where their parents and siblings had slept in the house.

They were too late for some. Vultures and jackals had smelled the rotting flesh, and there were a number of skeletons too damaged and too far removed from their homes for anyone to identify. Hohenheim tried his best, and gave every single soul a chance to examine every single body. Some had no idea which bodies were theirs; there had been too much chaos in those last moments for them to remember, or they had wanted too badly to forget. Others were sure a broken pile of bones was theirs, though it was nowhere near where they said they’d died. When asked, by Hohenheim or another soul, they said they just knew. Unless another soul said the body was also theirs, Hohenheim didn’t argue.

Hohenheim made a stone jar on the spot, and followed every detail of the burial rites as closely as he could, while he set the bones within. He wore the white cover over his mouth and nose, and wore the white gloves. He said the words, and set a copper coin over each eye; the hardest part of Hohenheim’s preparations had been moving bars upon bars of smelted copper out here so he could transmute them. Then he sealed the jar and carried it to the nearest settlement.

At night, he dug. It had been a century since human feet and the hooves of livestock had packed the earth, but it was still hard work. He used a shovel, and dug away from the settlements so the Dwarf wouldn’t find the remains.

Hohenheim? Marilla asked as he was eating. He was on to the tenth village, now, and had laid some thousand bodies to rest.

“Yes? What is it?”

Why don’t you use alchemy to dig our graves?

Hohenheim paused, the bite of crisp, roasted lizard resting on his tongue. He chewed, and swallowed. “Alchemy ripped your souls from your bodies. It doesn’t seem right to lay you to rest with it. And…”

And?

“You deserve my fullest effort.” He looked into the fire. “Every last one of you. And I mean to give it.”

 ***

The first body of someone Hohenheim knew was Andal’s. It wasn’t anywhere near the capital. He remembered, as his knees buckled, that no one but Andal wore a copper chain with a green stone in the shape of a scorpion around their neck, and had old fractures in the first two knuckles of their left hand from when he’d nearly slugged Hohenheim and hit the doorpost. The structure of the man’s face was a close match. Hohenheim remembered his master had sent Andal out here to deliver a message to his wife’s cousin regarding the birth of their third granddaughter.

Hohenheim did not sleep that night. Or any of the six nights after that. He redoubled his work. Forty thousand laid to rest. Fifty. Sixty. Seventy. He finished all the furthest flung towns, villages, and farmsteads. Some, he realized, were the towns where the massacres had happened. The tears he cried at those villages were just as much of rage as sadness. And he cried many, many tears. He couldn’t help it, didn’t want to, when so many within him were wracked by grief at seeing the unburied bones of their stolen loved ones.

But as he worked his way further and further into the country of his birth, Hohenheim found something happening that he hadn’t expected, though he realized he should have. The souls within him… were comforting each other. Parents grieved with parents for their lost children, children for their lost parents, brothers for sisters, sisters for brothers, lovers for lovers, friends for friends. And the sadness they had all felt for so long started to ease. And, for some, even break.

Families were reunited, friendships rekindled as the souls that had known each other in life found each other, and Hohenheim sometimes felt that the ocean within him almost transformed into a starlit sky, and sometimes the tears he cried were happy tears.

But almost no one within him hadn’t lost somebody to the Dwarf in the Flask. And so Hohenheim’s work continued. And he felt them shift from wondering to encouraging. Those who knew how told him how best to dig, where the ground was best for it, which sites would be hardest to find.

And Hohenheim dug. Not graves, open to the elements and easy to recognize, but crypts, into the ground and sides of gorges and ditches that hadn’t seen rain or water in decades. He reinforced them with stone blocks, made to Sergis’s exacting specifications. And within each crypt, he buried a community, each jar in a niche with the remains of its closest family and friends.

One hundred thousand he’d laid to rest. Two hundred thousand. Three. Four. He started working in the densely populated centre of the country. The gap between Andal and the second person Hohenheim recognized was substantial, but it couldn’t last. The next body he recognized was that of Ilsa, his baker’s wife. She was far from home, but he’d heard she had family east of the capital, and Hohenheim doubted anyone else he knew from back then wore a baker’s apron with the exact same pattern of desert roses stitched into the leather. The gap between her and the third, the royal courier who had a wooden foot, was much shorter than between the first and second.

Five hundred thousand. Six hundred. Seven.

The first time Hohenheim looked over the horizon and saw the silhouette of the royal palace, just as the sun was setting, he dropped to his knees and vomited. By the time he rose, the moon was up, the starts were out, and the vomit had been washed away by the flood of grief that washed over him.

He’d begun recognizing landmarks some time ago; now Hohenheim was recognizing individual buildings, houses, streets, squares. And almost daily, he was recognizing bodies without the help of the souls within him. Though it was getting less surprising, he was no less horrified by the finding, the recognizing of each life that was snatched away.

As he identified, and carried, and dug, and buried, Hohenheim could feel the wound in him starting to close, the guilt starting to lift. With every body he laid to rest, one soul’s grief and anger was assuaged, however slightly. He felt his determination to finish this thing deepen and harden within him.

He emptied the capital’s prison, the market district, the merchant’s quarter, the bazaar, the stables. He searched every basement, every rooftop, every bedroom, every warehouse, every granary. He saw the bodies of children who died sleeping, friends who died drinking, enemies who died brawling, lovers who died making love in each other’s arms; he saw a thousand thousand private moments, interrupted. He saw lives that should’ve been lived.

As those he had buried passed a million, Hohenheim moved into the environs about the palace, its ruined shape hanging over him as he worked. He almost told himself he wouldn’t go in until he’d checked every other district, and buried every other person, but stopped himself; he knew he wouldn’t go in because he was afraid.

 ***

And then the day came. It was as sunny as the rest. Hohenheim stood at the gate, for a very long time, staring into the palace grounds, dry and dead.

Hohenheim? He froze. They’d never all said the same thing at the same time before. Marilla continued, and all the others fell—somehow—perfectly silent. It’s okay. You have helped us do as we needed. Go and put your own demons to rest. We’re here for you. Because you are here for us.

Hohenheim didn’t try to halt the tears. “I know, Marilla.” He took a step forward. “Thank you.”

He scoured the entire palace from the bottom up. He left no room unexplored. Including his own. He heaved a sigh of relief when he found no one there.

After almost a week, he finally came to the throne room. There were nine bodies. Five for those who’d stood at the five corners of the innermost circle—Hohenheim remembered all of them. One for his master. Hohenheim wept for him, even as he collected his bones. One for the chief advisor. And the two other assistants, Mayo, and Willard.

Of the king, there was no sign, save for his rings and his diadem. They rested beside the brazier, where the final—and first—blood had been spilt. Hohenheim stared at them for some time.

“So much greed,” Hohenheim said, to no one in particular. The souls quieted as he spoke. “A million souls answered to you, and the wealth of a nation filled your coffers. No one ate so well as you, no one dressed half so finely, no one suffered so little. When others died at forty and counted it old, you feared death at sixty and seventy... It wasn’t enough for you.

“... Why!” The roar ripped from Hohenheim’s lips before he knew he was shouting. “Why wasn’t it enough? Why did you want more? Why couldn’t you be satisfied with the riches of kingship? Why did you have to cling to what you couldn’t have? Why did you have to be such a thrice-damned fool? He swindled you out of the lives you had no right to trade! The only souls I blame more for this than mine are his and yours!”

Sweat dripped into Hohenheim’s eyes, and he realized he’d kicked the brazier over, scattered the rings across the room. He wiped the sweat away, and took a deep breath. “You’re inside him somewhere,” he said, collecting himself. “Good. I can’t imagine a better place for you. I know you can’t hear me. But I will do everything I can for the lives I ruined by helping you. And he will suffer a fate of equal value to what he’s taken. I won’t imagine what that might be.” Hohenheim turned to the bones lying about the room, and moved to his master’s body.

“But your fate, King of Xerxes, will not be much better.”

 ***

The last crypt was sealed. The land of Xerxes had been cleansed of the bodies of its murdered people. As the sun set, Hohenheim looked back over his country.

You won’t be coming back, will you? Brock said.

“No,” Hohenheim said. “I think not.”

You’re going to try and find him, aren’t you?

Hohenheim nodded. “Yes.”

We’ll help. Marilla sounded more certain than the passage of time.

“I know.” Hohenheim turned west, and started walking. For some reason, as he passed the pillar marking the edge of his ancestral lands, the final lines of his people’s funeral rites came to mind. He had recited them many, many times. He couldn’t have told anyone why he said them one more time, but he did.

“All things were made from one.

And at the end, all things return to one.”

[themuffinbee]

Lore Olympus Novelized, Chapter 1

Hey all! I’ve moved my non-official fan adaption of Lore Olympus from Ao3 to Tumblr for anybody that might wish to read it. Hope you guys enjoy!

The plot and dialogue belong to the incredible Rachel Smythe.

----------------------------------------------------

Raindrops pelted the windshield as the slick streets of the Underworld glowed with fluorescent blue and electrified neon. A beautiful sight if anyone cared to notice, though few ever did.

Hades didn’t, not anymore. He hadn't for a very long time. 

At the present moment, like most moments, he had other things on his mind much more important than kaleidoscopic puddles of dirty city water. Important things like how it was only 9:15 and the night was already turning to shit.

Said shit-turning was mostly due to the absence of a particular river nymph, whose sultry silhouette should be right there, waiting under the awning of her apartment building. That was what she had agreed to with a little wink and a smirk only six hours ago, anyway. There was no way she had forgotten about it either. Not after the way she had gleefully crowed about receiving one of Hera’s coveted invitations to the night’s festivities. She had the damned thing pinned to her refrigerator, for crying out loud.

That left only one real question: what had he done to piss her off this time? He hadn’t even seen her since before the end of the workday. Then again, that had never managed to stave off her ire before. 

Eyes scanning for a streak of blood-red among all of the mirrored blue, Hades drove yet another circuit around the building, tapped out yet another text message, made yet another call. The phone rang once, twice, three times—

“Hey!” Minthe answered, voice low and relaxed. Carefree.

“You’re late, where are you?” Hades tried his best to keep any impatience out of his tone. Minthe didn't like it when he got impatient. 

He heard the sound of sloshing water in the background as she asked, “Did you get me that purse I wanted?”

“Um, yeah…” he began, “I did, but—”

“Oh, great!”

Another splash sent his heart sinking in his chest. Surely she wasn’t in the bathtub. She knew he had all but begged Hera for that damn invitation, there was no way she was taking a bath right now. He tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “You’re coming to the Panathenaea with me, right?”

The other end of the line went silent, and he found himself holding his breath despite knowing her answer.

“Hmm…” She drew out her simpering hum long enough to sound playful. At least, it would have, if he hadn't known better. “...I don’t think so.”

Hades bit inside of his cheek and counted backward from ten in his mind. “What do you mean?”

“What I mean is that I don’t particularly feel like being seen in public with you today.”

Oh, screw this. 

"Real classy, Minthe," he said, anger finally leaking into his voice. He glanced at the clock again and felt some of that anger turn into nervousness.

9:19.

There was a large difference between late, fashionably late, and late. Hera, of course, had worked out how to tell which was which down to an exacting science. He really didn't feel like getting pinned under that calculating gaze or chastened by that arched I told you so eyebrow. Or, even worse, being the beneficiary of her well-meaning but oh-so-condescending pity. 

"Come on, stop messing around," he said, sounding pathetic to his own ears. "I can't go to my brother's party by myself."

Not again. 

Minthe sighed, then explained as though she were speaking to a particularly dense toddler, "I don't feel like being seen with you in general."

It wasn't the first time she'd said something like this, but the words still hit him like a slap in the face. Normally, there would at least be a reason for her to say these things. Maybe one of their infamous knock-down, drag-out fights, or even a careless word on his part. Something. But this...this was completely unprovoked. Things had been...good...between them recently. No fights in almost a month, she seemed happy most of the time, and the two of them had settled into a comfortable routine between work and after work. It had been nice. Normal. Or, at least, as normal as the two of them were capable of being.

He opened his mouth to ask what the hell had gotten into her, what he had done to make her so angry, but Minthe’s voice halted the words in his throat 

"Hades…" she said, tone as languid as a string of cigarette smoke, "all the fine suits in the world won't change the fact that you stink of death."

That...that was a new one.

His teeth ground against one another as he tried to think of some kind of coherent response, willing himself not to give in to the outrage and panic that threatened to fill his mouth with poison. When no ingenious plan or even the will to salvage this whole mess appeared, Hades did the most sensible thing he could: he ended the call.

His limbs and head felt heavy as he sank his forehead onto the steering wheel, but not nearly as heavy as the weight that felt like it could tear a hole in his jacket pocket.

Ha. He had really thought she would consider...

Gods, what an idiot he was.

----------------------------------------------------

Even two blocks away from the party, Hades could tell the night’s festivities would very much resemble his youngest brother himself: loud, flashy, and obnoxious. Thunderous bass beats reverberated his car windows in place and splashes of light reflected off of the clouds like multi-colored lightning. The music only grew louder as he entered the building, now joined by the sounds of drunken party-goers.

As if he didn’t have enough of a headache already.

If all went well, he could make a few strategic appearances here and there, suffer through a five-minute conversation with his brothers, and be home with a bottle of his favorite scotch in under an hour. Most important of all, he needed to avoid—

“Hey! Hey! HEY!”

...Hera.

He turned around to see the golden Queen of the Gods, dripping with jewels and looking as resplendent as ever. Also, drunk. From the gentle sway of her walk and tilt of her stance, she had to be at least on her third drink of the night.

“Where is your date, Blue Boy?” She cocked her head with a grin.

“Gone,” he answered, unable to keep from averting his eyes. There wasn’t much point in trying to lie to her, there never was. Being married to a pathological philanderer for two thousand years had given her the ability to smell bullshit a mile away. “I need a drink.”

She studied him for only a moment before her face melted from a cheerful smile to tired annoyance. “Well, I, for one, am grateful! I don’t have to spend the evening with that nymph trash.” 

Ah. So she was drunk enough to be honest. Fourth drink, then.

...Nymph trash, huh? It wasn’t that all nymphs were trash. After all, Amphitrite, Queen of the Sea and bride of his least annoying brother, was technically a nymph herself. Hera wouldn’t ever speak of any of the Nereids like that, not if she didn’t want saltwater running through her taps for a month. No, his nymph was the one who was trash.

Hades began twisting a scrap of paper from his pocket between his fingers at the thought of his sister-in-law. “Did Poseidon bring his wife?”

Hera glanced down at his restless hands, then back up to his face, wearing that dreaded look of pity as she answered, “...Yes.”

Anger and anxiety had been battling it out in his brain the whole night through, and anger finally seemed to gain the upper hand.

“Great!” He threw his arm out to the side. “So I’m the only one alone?”

With her most self-assured smile, the kind that could convince almost anyone to throw themselves off of a cliff, Hera said, “Relax, no one will notice.”

Hades glared at her out of the corner of his eye. “You did.”

“Hera!” An unfortunately familiar voice boomed across the hall as the host of the night’s event, the purple pain in the ass, strode into view. Zeus, looking every bit the smug asshole he was with his white suit and diamond laurel, grabbed his wife about the waist and spun her around. “Hera, I’ve been looking for you everywhere! You look beautiful tonight!”

“Oh stop! You’re embarrassing me!” she cooed.

Zeus leaned in close, their noses almost touching as he whispered, “How ‘bout we get outta here?” 

Oh Gaia, he wasn’t about to start making out with her, was he?

Hera wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, words covered in honey. “You big silly! You can’t leave your own party!”

Zeus began nibbling on his wife’s ear and she giggled like a teenager with her first boyfriend.

Hades sighed. Yes. Yes, they were about to start making out in the middle of the hall. Now that he thought about it, he had walked in on the two of them making rather inventive use of one of their couches a few years back at a party much like this one. That was more of his brother than he had ever wanted to see.

Hades tugged at his cuff links and cleared his throat.

Zeus looked up with an empty smile as he finally met eyes with his brother. “Ooooh! Hello, Hades. I didn’t see you there.” 

Sure you didn’t.

Then the King of the Gods and idiot extraordinaire glanced around. “Hey, where’s your date?”

Hera groaned, “Zeus, I wish you knew when to shut up.”

This was going to be a long night.

----------------------------------------------------

“Hey, Artemis! What do you think?”

Persephone stuck her hands out to the sides and tilted her hips, hoping that if she struck a pose like she had seen on the cover of one of her cousin’s magazines she might look a little more...mature? Stylish? Less like a bumpkin straight from the country that had only spent a total of forty-eight hours on Mount Olympus?

Something like that.

Artemis looked her up and down with her dark eyes, then frowned. “Persephone...you can’t wear that. You look like a relic.”

Darn it. She had been afraid of that. The fashions on Mount Olympus were so different from those in the Mortal Realm. Like, way different. Her gauzy, loose tunics and chitons and shifts weren’t going to cut it up here, especially not at one of Zeus’ swanky parties. At least Artemis wasn’t the type to soften her opinion and hem and haw, dancing around the problem without actually saying there was a problem. Persephone rather liked that about her.

But that still meant there was a problem. A big one. Persephone’s pose wilted, hands coming up to her cheeks as if she could hide her embarrassment behind them. “But this is the only dress I have right now…”

“I’ve got something you can borrow!” Artemis smiled, still a little pitying, but Persephone had already accepted that she would be encountering a lot of that in the next few weeks. It was inevitable, really.

Either way, her cousin’s words brought a flood of relief. Persephone bounced on the balls of her feet and clapped her hands together. “Thanks! You’re a real lifesaver!”

Artemis may have been one of the three sacred virgins, but that didn’t mean she didn’t know how to turn a head. The Moon Goddess’ dress sparkled with sequins like stars in the sky and paired perfectly with her indigo skin, which was very visible with those high slits up the side of her thighs. Oh yes, Persephone would be in good hands on the fashion front. 

She smiled. Maybe the night wasn’t going to be so bad after all.

Chapter 2

[michellemagic]

WMMAP Prompts: Volleyball

Once again, written for @athy-n-lucas and their weekly prompt event! Big thanks to @nights-of-fire who inspired the ending :)

SUMMARY: Lucas is grumpy and doesn’t know how to talk to people, Jennette has a giant crush and freaks out. This leads to getting hit by volleyballs for some reason.

WARNING: SLIGHT LANGUAGE AND I HAVE NO ACTUALLY KNOWLEDGE ABOUT THE OLYMPICS SO PLEASE KEEP THAT IN MIND (Also the ships are definitely Athy x Kiel and Lucas x Jenny, you've been warned)

It started, of course, due to Lucas’ own sour personality. 

After finishing his marathon practice- and thoroughly crushing the other swimmers- he had walked by olympic runner, Jennette Margaritta on his way back to the Olympic Village. She was a kind girl, known for being as graceful in her running as she was fast. He noted dully that she seemed to be coming back from a training set herself as he walked by her. She then waved and smiled sweetly at some unknown who was standing somewhere in his general direction and the three time gold medal swimming champion already in an awful mood walked straight past her without a second thought. 

This would turn out to be a major mistake. 

Athanasia de Alger Obelia, Obelian volleyball champion, Jennette’s cousin and Lucas’ best friend texted him later that night. She sent him the link to an article boldly titled “The Drama Brewing Between Olympic Athletes Lucas and Jennette!” which had a picture of him walked by Jennette with a sour look on his face and talked about how he had deliberately ignored his fellow athlete, she also sent several question marks and an inquiry about why he hated her cousin. 

He texted back dryly that he didn’t even know her cousin and that this was all a misunderstanding before throwing he phone hazardously to his bedside table, missing Athanasia’s string of laughing emojis. Cursing the media and their rather amazing ability to ignore any sense, he elected to ignore the entire situation until it eventually just died down. 

But of course his luck sucked and one gutsy journalist decided to ask Athanasia for her opinion on the rumors surrounding her cousin and friend. The blue eyed girl, born and raised by a literal king, gave a vague answer that went along the lines of it was really none of the media’s business what was happening between Jenny and Lucas, the two didn’t know each other for that matter. 

In every article published the next day, the press quickly twisted them not knowing each other to them calling bad blood between each other. The world now believes that Lucas hated Jennette. 

Lucas dejectedly resigned himself to the idea that life was against him.

__

Jennette had a crush.  Actually, it was worse than that, Jennette had a CrushTM.

She’s always been surrounded by attractive people, even from a young age. Her cousin was probably the prettiest person on the face of the planet and Ezekiel, fellow runner and her best friend, has eyes that could melt the heart of anyone who saw him. She was honestly under the impression that the two of them together would create the most powerful power couple known to man. She knew what pretty people looked like, and she honestly liked looking at them. So it was honestly only a matter of time before she became smitten with the aloof swimmer that was dominating his scene. 

She first saw him years before, warming up for his first meet of the season. He had a towel slung over his shoulders and was still dripping with water. She’s not ashamed to admit that her first thought when she saw him was Lord he’s hot 

Yes, technically it didn’t fit her typically stereotypical personality, but she knew beauty when she saw it.  

She doesn’t know how long she stood there staring at Lucas (she knew it was longer than what was considered socially acceptable) but when she snapped out of it she immediately went looking for her best friend. 

“Kiel! Kiel!” 

 Ezekiel Alpheus, Jeanettes best friend and fellow runner, was smart.  More than just book smart, he was people smart. Coming from a rich family meant he needed to know who everyone was, which was perfect for Jeanette at the moment. 

After some search, Jennette was able to find her best friend doing some light jogging at a nearby park.

“Kiel!” Jennette called once more, causing him to turn to her. Taking out his earbuds, he inquired, “Jenny?”

Jennette went straight to the point, “ Do you know this guy with black hair and red eyes? He is one of the swimming athletes, or maybe water polo- I’m not really sure.”

Used to Jeanette’s loud personality Ezekiel was quick to answer, ” Black hair and red eyes?”

Jennette nodded in response. Ezekiel looked thoughtful,” You’re probably talking about Lucas.”

“So you know him?” Ezekiel hummed his agreement. 

“Well yeah,” he paused to pull out his phone, swiping through the small divide before turning it to her. “He has a pretty decent social media following and we swim together sometimes.”

Jennette zero’d in on the picture Ezekiel was showing her. Good lord that man was beautiful, “This picture, I want it.”

Her friend blanched, “I’m sorry, what.”

“I want it.”

“What do you want for it,” Ezekiel watched baffled as a fire lit in Jennette. There was no stopping her now, he’s known her long enough to know that. Well, if she was going to push anyways….

“I mean…”

….

After leaving Ezekiel, Jennette was able to find Athanasia quickly. It honestly wasn’t hard, her cousin was almost always at one of the gyms close to the olympic village practicing her sets or serves. There was a small crowd watching her, mostly die hard fans but there were a few journalists as well. Perfect for her. 

“Athy!” 

Athanasia turned, breathing heavily but happily surprised at the appearance of her cousin. “Jenny! Hi, what are you doing here.”

“I needed to make a confession to you, and I couldn’t wait.”

Her cousin blinked,” Uh- Ok? What’s up?”

“Ezekiel is not just my very attentive best friend. He’s the best male runner in the competition," Jennette spoke to her cousin, her words loud and clear for the paparazzi that she knew was following them. “His abilities are truly unmatchable and you two would made beautiful babies together.”

Athanasia dropped her volleyball.

Later that night Ezekiel texted her. Going into a long rant about how he wanted her to tell Athanasia that he was interested in her and maybe brag about his skills a little bit not tell her that he wanted to have her kids. Oh well, his fault for not being more clear. 

Athanasia has also texted her, her cousin’s message much shorter than Ezekiel’s. Jenny, I don’t know what you sold your soul for, but I hope it was worth it, she followed the message using no less then five nauseous emojis. It was better than her reaction that afternoon considering she turned bright red, threw her volleyball (at Jennette! Her cousin! The nerve!), and ran away.

Blushing lightly at the picture of a smirking, bathing suit wearing Lucas, Jennette decided that, yes, it was worth it. 

__

Lucas blamed Athanasia for all of this. He knew, realistically, that it wasn’t her fault the media sucked, but he was told he couldn’t call bs on the media so ignoring his best friend was the next best option.

That didn’t deter Athanasia at all, she lovingly told him to stop sulking (he wasn’t sulking!) and sent him the link to one of her cousin’s more popular fan cites claiming that if he wanted to fix the situation the best place to start was learning more about Jennette … and he spent more time on the page than he cared to admit. 

The homepage was actually really well designed if too cutesy and bright for his taste. Lucas quickly learned that Jennette lived with Athanasia’s family most of her life (due to her parents walking out on her), her average running and qual times, her (rather decorated) track record, and that she was apparently the most adorable thing know to man - the last item didn’t actually come from an interview or study but several highly detailed fan posts that had numorous pictures and clips of Jennette doing things deemed “adorable”, all the posts ended with a comment along the lines of “BABY!” “WE MUST PROTECT THE CHILD” “PROTECT MY BABY AT ALL COSTS!!!!!” Lucas quickly realized that this was an expression of affection, not the girl’s mother under several different pseudonyms. Apparently, Jennette attracted the cute and adorable in this brutal world.

Well, Lucas wasn’t cute or adorable, but he was definitely attracted. 

__

Jennette was having a crisis. 

She made a major mistake and now the boy she had a crush on hated her. She was just trying to be nice to a fan! That was it! She didn’t know the press would catch the exact moment her eyes zero’d in on Lucas’ instead, or that they would take picture, she didn’t look that long! Afterwards, her cousin told her that of course they noticed Jenny, you’re so obvious when you stare. Cute, but obvious. (She was not!) Of course Athanasia also said it was all a big misunderstanding and that Lucas didn’t actually hate her, but Athanasia always ended to baby things down for her. Protecting her unconsciously like when they were little kids and Jennette would cry over anything and everything. 

But… her cousin wouldn’t lie to her.  Yeah, she seemed in a rush, something about practicing some sets with Ezekiel. They’ve been dating for several months now- and for the record, she did that thank you very much- and Athanasia’s head always went buzzy when she was thinking about Ezekiel. So maybe her cousin just wasn’t thinking when she told Jennette that the boy she had a massive crush on didn’t walk straight past her without a second thought and then proceed to hate Jennette for the rest of her miserable life to the point where the shame would make her have to change her name and disappear to some godforsaken place-

Buzz

Jennette groaned, stopping her mental torture, and went to check her who texted her. It was her cousin, of course.

Heads up, I think Lucas wants to meet with you. If you wanna hid out you can come join Kiel and me at the volleyball court :)))))

That was it. Jennette was going to change her name and move to Greenland. She could probably hid from her shame in Greenland.

—

Lucas had no idea where to start. He isn’t known as a loner among his group for no reason- Hell, he was only friends with Athanasia because she was a force of nature- but other than that… he has acquaintances, not friends.

How did Athanasia socialize? She threw volleyballs at people, and that helped him not at all. He could throw water at Jennette maybe, but that would probably only make things worse. Dang it, why was his only friend a damn volleyball player. Why did that volleyball player have to be his only example of how to interact with humanity. Fuck, he was getting ahead of himself. He needed to find the girl first, thinking about volleyball and Athanasia wasn’t helping.

So of course he found Jennette at the volleyball court with Athanasia. Why volleyball? Why did everything in his life always come back to volleyball. She was sitting next to Ezekiel, spinning a volleyball and chatting absentmindedly with the fellow athlete as they watched Athanasia practice.

“Lucas!”

He turned away from the two runners at Athanasia’s call. His blonde best friend was waving cheekily from where she was practicing her serves. “Go sit will Kiel and Jenny! I’m almost done!”

Yes, Opening! Lucas nodded at his friend before walking over where Ezekiel and Jennette were sitting.

 Ezekiel nodded at him, as charming and sociable as usual. “Lucas.”

“Ezekiel.” Thank god for acquaintances. He’d have no idea what people startedd conversations with without them. He then zero’d in on the jewel eyed girl sitting next to him, she looked slightly petrified. 

“You’re Jennette right? I’m Lucas.” Introductions. You were supposed to start with introductions. He took a deep breath before he continued,” Guess we’ve been a popular subject in the paper recently huh?”

“I’m sorry,” She suddenly blurted out, looking like she could burst into tears, “I know you probably hate me but I promise-“

Lucas suddenly felt a migraine coming on. How did he mess up introductions? This is why he didn’t talk to people he couldn’t help but think as he interrupted the trembling girl. “I don’t hate you”

“The press thinks you hate me.” The press also thought Lucas hated Athanasia when they first became friends, it didn’t make that true.

“I don’t.”

“But-“ Lord did this girl like to press on issues.

“If you’re so worried about the damn rumor,” Lucas stated dryly,” How about I take you out for lunch and we give the paparazzi a reason to stop thinking we hate each other.” 

Jennette, absolutely fluster by this boy -who is definitely hotter when he’s a few feet in front of her-, completely panicked at the implications of his offer. Impulsively, she threw the volleyball in her hands straight at him. Her aim rang true and the ball smacked him right in his forehead. 

Somewhere in the court, the bright sound of Athanasia’s laughter rang out and next to them Ezekiel gave a panicked yelp. That didn’t matter though as the only thing ringing in Lucas’ head was the sound of Jennette’s stuttering apology and the fact that he got hit by a damned volleyball again.

…

The next day, Athanasia sent an article titled Jennette vs Lucas: Assault with Volleyballs? to Jennette, Ezekiel sent her numerous texts questioning her on her mental help, and the young runner’s main coach was definitely setting off her phone of with inquiries on what in the world is happening Jennette. Jennette, shyly sitting across from Lucas in a quaint cafe ignored all of them.

[groovyzombiellama]

Tempting Fate

Title: Tempting fate

Requested? No.

Plot: You and Colson meeting for a few times by accident before going on a date, realising something along the lines of fate was pulling the two of you together.

Word count: 1555

---***---

You never believed in chance encounters, to you everything that happened was planned out, and there was absolutely no way that you were gonna have a cheesy meet-cute one day that will just sweep you off your feet. You spent a lot of time thinking that, until life decided it was going to prove you wrong. That Saturday was like any other. You had made a pact with your best friends in college to take every Saturday off, even for an hour or two, and just go out for a coffee together, and keep your friendship strong. You can still remember it like it was yesterday. You can even remember the exact outfit you wore on that day. It was a bit chilly out, so you had your camo leggings on, and a black t-shirt, covered with a black leather jacket, along with a pair of timberland boots on your feet. You've always tried your best to choose clothes you feel comfortable in, and also know you look good in. Your friends all told you that combo looked good, so you just grabbed the clothes out of the wardrobe, because not being a morning person, among other things, meant that you couldn't be bothered to plan out an outfit.

Yoir hair was up in a ponytail, and after grabbing your purse and phone, you were put the door, somewhat rushing. Why did you always have to be so late? You hated it the most that every time you leave even so much as five minutes earlier, you spend over ten minutes waiting for everyone, but when you give yourself the liberty and time it out to leave with just enough space left to be there on time, you always somehow end up being late. If it ends up happening today too, you were ready to start looking into the reason behind this strange occurrence. Luckily, on your way there, you got a message from your friends, saying they were running a bit late themselves, so you could just slow down your pace and enjoy the cold breeze pinching your cheeks. As you approached the coffee shop you and your friends frequented, you could notice it was a lot more crowded than usual. The biggest appeal to the coffee shop was that it wasn't way too many people constantly coming in and out. It was more a place where people came to have a quiet moment, do some work on their laptop or even read a book while they sipped on a warm beverage.

Taking a closer look, you noticed that the people who were currently populating the coffee shop weren't exactly interested in that sort of thing. They were more interested in a certain customer. You couldn't really see who it was, but you could tell how frustrating it was for the workers of the coffee shop to kindly ask them to leave. They knew you and your friends very well and when your friends arrived, about a few moments later, you could see their pleading eyes almost begging you to help. And you were going to do just that, not knowing that you would set in motion one of the weirdest and yet happiest days of your life.

"Alright everyone, I don't know what this whole fuss is about, but I have to ask you to respect the people who work here and the people who just want to enjoy their drink. Whatever it is, it can wait at least a little bit. Please."

You pushed your way towards the counter and raised your voice just enough to gain everyone's attention.

"She's absolutely right guys. We can take photos outside when I'm done, but please step away for a moment, okay? You don't have to wait outside in the cold, but if you stay here, please be respectful."

A voice you found pretty familiar agreed with you and caused you to turn your head to the side to identify the owner of that voice. And that's when you realised where you knew him from. You were mesmerised for a moment, looking in the gorgeous blue eyes of your celebrity crush Machine Gun Kelly. You somehow managed to come back to reality and smile at him, a blush creeping on your face when he sent you a wink, and you and your friends went to your usual table. You couldn't help but sneak glances at Colson's table, and your cheeks would get redder and redder every time you looked in his direction to find him looking back at you, his lips curving into a slight smirk. You could also feel a lot of cold stares from his fans, and it was all making you really self conscious. After being done with his drink, Colson got up, much to his fans delight, and after paying for his, and what you'd later fond out, yours and your friends drinks too, he was out the door, and he took a few photos with his fans and disappeared after sending you another smile.

Your friends were teasing you constantly after that, and you couldn't wait to get back home and Bury your face on your pillow and daydream about what could have happened. But your cousin ended up calling you and asking if you were up for lunch, which you gladly accepted, your cousin being like a sister to you and after you were done catching up with your friends, you were on your way to see your cousin. A similar situation awaited you in the restaurant and you couldn't help but chuckle after meeting eyes with Colson again and he smiled at you before shrugging, and you ended up shaking your head with a smile on your face, and turned to talk to your cousin. You were talking and laughing, and you could feel Colson's stare burning in the back of your neck. You felt weird meeting him here again, since your college town isn't that small that you only have several restaurants to visit. He could have chosen any other, but as if that one thing you didn't believe in at work here. Good old fate. But you still refused to accept it and regarded it as another coincidence. Even your cousin was naming fate when you told her that you'd seen him today already.

"You know, I think she's right. Even though you don't. I'm Colson, nice to meet you. Sorry I didn't introduce myself earlier and thank you for helping me calm my fans down a bit."

Colson appeared next to you as you answered to your cousin how fate doesn't exist. He smiled and reached his hand out to you when he introduced himself and you shyly took it and you shook hands. His gaze lingered on your eyes for a moment before introducing himself to your cousin too. He invited you two over to his table for dessert and your cousin had to drag your blushing self along. You spent some time talking and laughing together, before you had to part ways and you made a bet with Colson that you'd let him take you out if the two of you met for the third time before midnight. Of course you wanted to go on a date with him, but you also didn't like losing, so it was a tough call.

You asked your sibling who was going out that night to let you know if they see him, so you'd know what bar you could avoid and then pop in before midnight to let him know that you won, but you kinda maybe still wanted that date. Confusing plan, but you felt like it was sound. Oh how the tables will turn. When you and your friends arrived at your club, a good while away from the club you heard Colson was in, you got comfortable. You aren't usually a big fan of parties, but it was your friend's birthday, so you wanted to celebrate with her. Everything went swimmingly for a few hours, until you felt someone snake their arm around your waist and pull your back flush against their chest. You were ready to curse out this imbecile for even thinking he can touch you, but as you turned, you realised that it was no imbecile, but Colson. He leaned over and whispered in your ear.

"Looks like someone owes me a date."

His words made heat rise in your cheeks once again, making him chuckle at how cute you looked to him. You could say that the rest is history. You went from the first date to the second, then third, and it was then that Colson asked you to be his girlfriend. Three years have passed since then and the two of you are still going strong. It isn't always easy, but you make it work. Although Colson would never admit that he in fact searched for you that night, to make sure he doesn't lose his chance with you. Oh no, if you ask him, it was fate for the third time. And it was in a way. He searched for you, but just as he was about to give up and think you purposely stayed home, he stumbled into the very club you were in. So maybe there is such a thing as fate, who knows.

---***---

I'm trying my best to write as many requests as possible so that I'd have the ability to queue them and be able to focus on classes as well, but it's super tough for me sometimes to spend all day at college and then muster enough energy to write more than one fic. But I will give it my best, and hopefully I'll be able to post them soon 😊😉

I hope this time the app doesn't send the gif all the way to the bottom like it did the last time I posted here 😂

[solange-lol]

not so typical love song - ch. 1/13

Chapter Title: Rollarcoaster

Words: 3,050

Note: my piece for the @pjo-hoo-bigbang !!! special thanks to @shelbychild and @wisdom-walks-alone for editing and helping me develop this story! it wouldnt exist w/o y’all!

Art by @lizzybizzyo! <3

[ one | two | three | four | five | six | seven | eight (coming soon)]

read on ao3

—

Nico is staring at his computer, wordless. This isn't writer's block or surprise; it’s just the unknown reality of what this situation could lead to.

Another gay kid in his school. Another gay kid that isn’t Mitchell—who’s been out since 8th grade, and the only one to be out since then. Another kid at their school who’s hiding a secret. 

Nico doesn’t even know if this kid is a boy or a girl or what, and frankly, he doesn’t care. There’s another kid like him. And he has no idea how to respond to the post.

The post is a submission from their school’s gossip blog on Tumblr, the notorious ‘hb-secrets.’ Piper had called him an hour ago, asking if he’d seen it yet.

“Seen what?” he had responded.

“The post on hb-secrets? About the closeted gay kid?” It hit Nico like a wall of bricks as he quickly went to pull up the website. Did somebody know? It was a relief when he saw the clipart Ferris wheel and a few short lines submitted by a blog called blue0919.

“I bet it’s that Brazilian sophomore. Paolo or whatever? Or maybe it’s Connor Stoll! I swear he’s been flirting with Mitchell, but Annabeth keeps telling me that he’s into Lacy or someone,” Piper continued as he read, but it was going in one ear and out the other as he processed the words on the screen

Sometimes I feel like I’m stuck on a Ferris wheel. One minute I’m on top of the world, and the next minute I’m at rock bottom. Over and over all day long, because a lot of my life is great. But nobody knows I’m gay.

“Gotta go. I’ll talk later,” Nico said quickly, switching off his phone. He knew it would raise suspicion, but it felt like time was turning in on itself. Nobody knew about Nico. In fact, nobody ever even suspected. He’s never been called names besides “Death Boy.” And yet, there were the exact words that described his life, written out in front of him like they were a second thought.

And now, he was staring at his computer with an empty Gmail draft open. The original poster had left their email at the end of the post, so Nico after glancing quickly at his Panic! at the Disco poster still proudly hanging on his wall, typed out a new address. He was stuck, though, unsure of what to say from here. 

So, he started from the beginning.

From: bettertoburn@gmail.com

To: blue0919@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 6:48 PM

Subject: Hey

Somehow you’ve managed to type exactly what I feel. Sorta scary, as if you’re inside my head or something. Maybe it’s just a gay thing to be speaking in metaphors about the pressure of everyday society.

That’s what I am. Gay. I don’t know if I’ve ever really said it out loud to myself.

It’s weird because I never really had a perfectly normal life. My mom died when I was young, so I never really got to meet her. My sister and I have always been super close until she went away to college. Now, not as much. I guess that’s just what happens when you live a million miles away. 

And I’ve known my stepmom longer than I knew my real mom, but it was only a few years ago when I met my half-sister when she came to live with us because her mom died as well. Meaning, she isn’t the daughter of my stepmom. It’s a long story, and not really one I want to get into.

She’s super nice though. It’s funny, but despite being polar opposites with my older sister, they’re both mushy inside. Same with my stepmom. And my dad… he tries his best. We’re like exactly what you expect from a slightly broken family. Plus my dog who my cousin gave to me during a rough time. Honestly, she’s probably my favorite sibling out of them all. (Both my sisters would kill me if they knew I wrote that.)

And then there are my friends. I have some that are closer than others; Two of them I’ve known for a while now, and one who I only met recently but treats me better than some of the people I’ve known my whole life. While I admit, I’m not the most social person in the world, they’re pretty amazing as far as friends go. 

So there it is. My perfectly normal life. Except for that huge ass secret.

He typed and retyped each line what felt like a thousand times, deleting word after word. He didn't know what was too much. It all felt like too much, really. He didn’t even know if he could trust this person.

Signing it was the worst part; he didn’t have any good pseudonyms. Eventually, he decided to leave it blank.

Without a second thought, Nico hit ‘send’ before leaning back in his chair and putting his hands over his head. Only a second later, a light knock came from the door, causing him to quickly sit up as Hazel popped her head in.

“Dinner’s ready if you wanna eat,” she smiled. She left just as quickly as she came, curls bouncing as she walked away. They had gotten over the awkwardness of having a new sibling only months after Hazel moved in, but there was still some strangeness. To this day, Nico was still a lot closer to her than Bianca was. Either way, Nico knew he would do anything for her. (Not that he would admit that. He didn't even need to, Hazel already knew.)

Nico glanced back at his computer, but there was nothing in his inbox besides the Gmail “Welcome” email. It was stupid to think this person would respond that quickly, seeing as Nico didn't even know if they would respond at all. Heaving a sigh, he got up to join his family for dinner. Maybe he could even convince them to watch Steven Universe instead of The Bachelor.

---

Dinner went as expected. It’d been a while, actually, since they were all together for a meal. Hazel talked about her psycho geometry teacher and a boy she talked in the class named Frank, who seemed sweet but apparently had a shared hatred for math just like her. Nico didn’t say much, although chimed in at the latter, saying he better be the flower boy at their wedding. That even got a short scoff out of his father, which tended to be the closest Nico ever got him laughing. So, that was a win. 

However, he was a little more distant than usual. The pending email response was in the back of his mind during the entire meal.

Even afterward, as they watched reruns of Glee (a compromise made between Hazel and Nico, much to their father’s dismay), Nico couldn’t focus. It felt like a weight was burning through his back pocket. After the second episode (and laughing his ass off at his father’s reaction to Kurt’s ‘Single Ladies’ dance) he finally excused himself. 

He tapped the Gmail app on his phone as soon as he had reached his room. It felt like his heart skipped a beat when he noticed the new notification, a response from the original poster. With slightly shaky hands, he tapped the response, and a message opened up.

From: blue0919@gmail.com

To: bettertoburn@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 8:12 PM

Subject: I’ve never done this before

Dear anonymous person on the internet,

I really don’t know where to begin. I’m also not sure if you're a real person. For all I know you could be some random pedophile like one of those cases they warned us about in health class for the past 5 years, even though it’s never happened within the last decade.

But in case you are real, hello! I’m the original poster from that hb-secrets thread about life being a Ferris wheel. I’m rereading what I wrote there and I can’t stop cringing, so I’ll start by apologizing for that. I’m not usually one for metaphors, even the bad ones.

Anyway, it sounds like you identify with what I wrote. I’m glad you emailed me; I didn’t think anyone would actually do anything with the email that I left. Except maybe be extremely homophobic. But it made me feel less like I was shouting into the void, so thanks for that. And I assume you’re okay with me writing back since you sent me the first email. Though, I can’t believe I’m actually writing to you. I really didn’t think I would.

I guess I’m thinking it could be nice to talk with someone who can relate to how I’m feeling. No pressure, of course, but feel free to write back if you want to. I don’t want to use my real name, but you can call me Blue. 

It was surreal. Someone who was like Nico. Someone who wanted to talk to Nico because they were like him. 

He started to type again, with more excitement than he’s ever felt. He’s never been able to express this part of him before. It was almost like first date jitters-type feeling. 

(Not that he really knew what that was like.)

From: bettertoburn@gmail.com

To: blue0919@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 8:23 PM

Subject: Re: I’ve never done this before

Hi, Blue

Wow, I’m actually kind of flipping out right now, because I seriously didn’t think I’d hear from you, especially so quickly. Wow. Okay. First of all, thanks for your email and also for your Tumblr post. I really liked it, Blue, and it wasn’t cringy at all, I promise.

So do you go here (here meaning HBHS)? I do, I’m a junior. And I’m a guy (are you a guy?) Anyway, I could relate a lot to your post, Like, pretty much all of it, but especially the part about being gay. You probably figured that out already though. And I’m not out yet either, which you probably figured that part out too. 

I guess a part of me wants to be out, but a part of me’s like… no. It’s hard to explain. I don’t know. Maybe you get it.

So yeah, it’s really nice to meet you! This is kind of cool, right? Even writing this email makes me feel eleven times less alone.

-Angel (not my real name either, two can play at this game. It’s not like a pet-name type thing. If you ever find out who I am, you’ll understand why.) 

He was worried about the whole name-signing thing. ‘Angel’ was just the easiest thing; it was a direct translation of his last name. He was really hoping Blue still didn’t take it in a weird way, even with that last note.

Relief flooded through him when he read the first sentence of Blue’s next email. 

From: blue0919@gmail.com

To: bettertoburn@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 8:41 PM

Subject: Re: I’ve never done this before

Angel, huh? Maybe like guardian angel perhaps. 

Also, eleven times less alone? That’s oddly specific. :) But I know exactly what you mean.

Anyway, wow. Hi. You wrote back, and quickly too. I’m really glad you liked my post. Now I’m actually happy I put it out there. I have to admit, it’s strange to be writing a somewhat personal email to you when we don’t know each other’s identities. Though, in a way, I guess that makes it easier. Sorta like a therapist, except we’re both blindfolded and have the same problem. So not really a therapist, I guess.

Do you think therapists have therapists? Like, if the problems get to be too much for them? Is there an Almighty Therapist who just absorbs everyone's issues and feels nothing?

Anyway, I am a guy, and I’m also a junior at HB. I think you’re actually the first other gay guy I’ve met here. It’s pretty surreal to be talking to you. (In a good way though.) I wonder if we know each other in real life. 

And I think I understand what you mean. I feel like I’m constantly going back and forth about wanting to come out. I have these moments where I’m almost bursting to tell people. Of course, that’s where I was when I posted the thing on Tumblr. But I always feel so weird about it a few hours later, and sometimes I’m intensely relieved no one knows yet. What about you?

-Blue

From: bettertoburn@gmail.com

To: blue0919@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 9:12 PM

Subject: Re: I’ve never done this before

I mean, let’s be real, eleven is the best number, which is perfect because we’re both in eleventh grade. And I can't believe we’re both juniors. The class is pretty small compared to the others, so I bet we do know each other, which is weird to think about. What if we’re actually enemies in real life? Do you have enemies? I don’t think I do, not really. Various people tend to annoy me a lot. It’s not even their fault; some people just have really punchable faces.

 (I’m usually a really nonviolent person. I’m more like a violent person who at the same doesn’t really want to hurt anyone, so I have to resort to fantasizing about punching people, which just ends in eating my feelings in large quantities of McDonald’s.)

It’s funny for me, it’s actually not so much that go back and forth about wanting to come out. It’s like I simultaneously do and don’t want to be out. Which is pretty freaking exhausting, honestly. Like I’m in this constant state of JUST SAY IT and NO NEVER. Do you think that ever ends? I don’t know, maybe I’m just a really indecisive person. I think part of me is also just holding out until college when I’m away from anyone I know and can just reinvent myself.

So what kind of stuff do you like to do after school and everything?

-Angel

From: blue0919@gmail.com

To: bettertoburn@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 9:34 PM

Subject: Re: I’ve never done this before

I don’t think I have any enemies, but now I’m definitely wondering if I’m the guy with the punchable face. How do you know if you have a punchable face? I’ve never been punched, so hopefully, that’s a good sign. 

I will say, I’m definitely with you on the issue of eating your feelings. I’m the person who has never smoked a cigarette or gotten drunk or anything like that, and I'm usually relatively healthy. However, I once ate five jars of Nutella in one sitting. I do not recommend, 

I’m indecisive, too, in some ways. Okay, full disclosure: I was really conflicted when you sent me that email. I kept going back and forth about whether I should email you. I was (and am) definitely intrigued, but I guess I was also a little bit paranoid. It’s just that you could have been anyone, and it’s hard to know sometimes if someone’s being a jerk or if they’re being sincere. Plus my cousin sort of actually outed me. Not to anyone else, he’s the only one who knows, but now I’m super paranoid about coming out. (Exactly what you said about holding out until college. I’m thinking I can move to LA or somewhere where nobody really cares. Although I wouldn’t want to reinvent myself. And I don’t want you to reinvent yourself either, you’re pretty cool as you are I think.) Anyway, I’m really glad I decided to email you, though.

So, you’re probably going to think I’m ridiculous, but I’d rather not answer your last question. It’s just… I think I like being anonymous for now. Is that okay?

-Blue

Okay, that last part was fair. Nico understood the wanting-to-be-anonymous thing. Sure, they go to the same school. But Blue had no reason to entirely trust him; Nico didn’t really trust Blue at all. This could entirely be some random asshole anywhere in the world trying to find him and beat him up, or worse. It sucked that homophobia was still a thing in their day and age. 

But Blue said he liked talking to Nico, and it was thrilling to talk to him. It was another secret of his, but not one he entirely minded keeping. So, he chose to believe that Blue was actually who he said he was. 

From: bettertoburn@gmail.com

To: blue0919@gmail.com

Date: Oct 2 at 9:57 PM

Subject: Punchability

Blue, you have so much to learn about the rules of punchability, starting with the fact that it is completely impossible for you to have a punchable face. Rule number one: guys who make metaphors about Ferris wheels are automatically unpunchable. Rule number two: There isn’t one. Just rule number one, so memorize it. Everyone else can catch these fists. (Catch these fists? These hands? This would probably be more intimidating if I knew the correct phrasing)

Also, five jars of Nutella in one sitting is the worst idea I’ve ever heard in my life. Challenge accepted.

I don’t think you’re ridiculous, Blue. I totally understand why you don't want to tell me about your extracurricular activities (I’m guessing interpretive dance, though, you seem like the type.) But seriously, I get it. It’s this weird contradiction, right? It’s so much easier to be open with someone who doesn't know you at all. We’ll be each other's Ultimate Therapists. 

(Except I don’t think I could ever be a therapist.)

Anyway, I’m really glad you decided to email me back, too :)

-Angel

That smiley face was really unlike him. 

Nico sent the email, but after nearly an hour, he didn’t get on back, which meant Blue was probably asleep. Which was different from what Nico was used to; he tended to stay awake until the early hours of the morning most nights. But it wasn’t anything he minded. He had a conversation with Blue, and even if that was the last one they would ever have (which, he was hoping it wouldn’t be), it was good to know that there was somewhere out there like him.

[skruffie]

It’s not the anniversary yet, but it IS National Siblings Day and I conveniently forget that this is even a thing until I go on Facebook or Twitter or something and remember. This year is a big milestone for my family because it is the 18th anniversary, which marks a passage of time from now to forever where she has been gone longer than she was alive.

I saw this thing on Facebook about grief, and it went something like grief is this hole, and you can try to fill the hole with whatever you can, but nothing fills it. It’s bottomless. It seems like your entire life gets sucked into it, but eventually as the years go on... the hole doesn’t get smaller. Your life gets bigger, and it grows around it. The hole is always there, but there’s more expanse around it as you move through each anniversary, each holiday, each milestone. It’s similar to describing grief as “it doesn’t get easier, you just get better at coping”.

(This is going to be very long and probably very sad because I talk at great length about her life and death)

I tried to write about a little bit about Nicole on Twitter today, but my initial post mentioned the word “cancer” which caught the attention of this fucking asshole that was advertising faith healing on his timeline. That dulled my grief a bit but it sure made me mad.

Trying to remember things.

We were seven years apart so we never really had a sibling rivalry or anything. I actually looked up to her so much--she was like a teenage rock star to my child self. She loved writing and wrote lots of poetry, got published in an independent zine by age nine, and through her adolescence was a bit of a grunge punk. She played piano and bass. She wore combat boots. Occasionally she dressed up with the full make-up and everything and called them her “pretty days”. She had a lock of hair in front of her face she kept in a small braid. She did blogging before the word “blog” even existed by maintaining an email list of friends and family, and she would email her updates directly to them. She coded her own websites and experimented with graphic design. She did photography. She’s why I love nail polish and tarot cards and Doc Martens--her own boots had navy blue laces with suns and moons on them. She had a huge, huge crush on Dave Navarro. She would buy hostess cupcakes for the kids at school who didn’t have food, and she kicked her own friends out of our house when they tried to bring alcohol to her party.

Nicole grew up with the brunt of our parents’ addictions before I came along. My mom (seen with baby Nicole in one of the photos above) and dad were only 19 when they had her and got married. When she was younger, they actually split up for a while and I think my great-grandma helped take care of her. My parents both went to rehab, got back together, and then had me, so... I was the baby that grew up in a sober house for a while at least. My parents still argued and it bothered me a lot when I got a bit older, so she’d come get me and take me to her room and bring chips and bean dip, and I’d have a safe place to cry.

...That’s a thought I just had right there. After she died, I didn’t really have that same kind of shield from my parents fighting (which was a lot worse after her death--a lot of couples who lose a child end up divorcing and my parents came close), which I think is probably what made the emotional neglect worse.

I don’t remember the exact progression of her cancer, but things started getting noticeable when she started developing night-blindness. I think at the time there were some doctors that didn’t believe she could be getting cancer so getting the insurance to cover tests and treatment was a fight every single time. A tumor started growing in her left arm, and the diagnosis was finally clear: rhabdomyosarcoma. She asked the doctors after her diagnosis if it was genetic, because even after that, she thought of me. (Thankfully, it isn’t. It was just a stupid, cruel twist of the universe.)

She got chemo, started to go into remission, and eventually it came back. Nicole then got a stem cell transplant when it was getting worse--more tumors, etc etc. I had met with a grief counselor at the hospital once or twice during this time period, even before we knew for sure it was terminal, because I was 10 going on 11 and needed someone to help me process and also like... kinda pay attention to me? Admitting that feels weird, but I was just a kid.

The day that I found out that the stem cell transplant didn’t work is probably almost worse than the day she died for me. They brought in a minister and we sang “Amazing Grace” and I watched her be baptized, and while she was being anointed, I kept asking everyone “Why is she being baptized? Why??? Why?! We’re Wiccan!!” Which was true. Nicole also underwent a Wiccaning around this time. Everyone was ignoring my questions, until finally it was time. She told me the stem cell transplant had not been successful and broke down crying, and I immediately understood what that meant, and I started screaming and crying. I started screaming to see the grief counselor, and I had to leave the hospital room to go with the counselor down to my favorite spot on the hospital campus.

Fuck. I hate Easter. I fucking hate Easter. It was around Easter time and this holiday plays a role in this awful memory of mine: at the hospital, some very kind person made little easter baskets for all the kids that were on the juvenile cancer ward, and I even got to get one even though I wasn’t a patient. I was starting to open mine but Nicole just looked at it. She said “Why do I get one? Why do I get one when I’m going to--” and probably started crying. I put my basket aside because the thrill of like... easter chocolate or whatever the fuck was gone. I don’t think I’ve been able to enjoy this holiday since.

Make A Wish was involved at some point, obviously. NIcole’s original wish was to meet Tori Amos, but her management team responded with “Uhhh, Tori doesn’t really do that” which was disappointing at first. (A few years later, a couple of Nicole’s friends saw T live in concert and met her at a meet and greet. They told her Nicole’s story and I guess she had no idea actually, so I believe it was a decision firmly on the management’s side.). The next wish had to be rushed, and Nicole realized that she wanted to go to prom. The actual senior prom for her high school was going to be too far out in advance with her surviving that long, so Make A Wish threw together a special prom just for her and about 150+ attendees.

The prom was held at Newport Harbor on a yacht. Rebecca Schoenkopf of Wonkette, known in 2001 as CommieGirl for the OC Weekly, met with Nicole once prior to this and attended as a prom guest to write about it. Naturally, Nicole was crowned prom queen and when she stood up to receive the crown, it was something magical. She had spent most of the evening in and out of sleep from being so ill and from the medications she was on.

When she was dying, she wanted to be at the hospital. I stayed at my grandparent’s house... probably for a couple days, I don’t actually remember how long it was, and my parents were there for her. I believe she died in the early hours of the morning on April 30th, two days short of her 18th birthday. I had a moment that morning that I consider a small blessing, which is that I found out she was gone before anyone had actually told me, and it gave me a brief reprise to just be by myself while I gathered up my will to go downstairs and face my parents. I had been in the process of going downstairs, and I saw my mom come out of the bathroom, and that was it. That was all I needed to see.

She had them write a letter as her own personal message to me. Two days later for her 18th birthday, my cousin sent us 18 lavender balloons. I don’t think we had her memorial until the 11th of May and I know this because it was the same day Douglas Adams--one of Nicole’s favorite authors--died. We joked that she took him with her. Nicole was cremated, and I do remember there was at least one funny moment that morning as we were getting out of the car. My mom handed me the wooden box that had Nicole’s cremains in it and said “Here, hold your sister for a sec.” We got a touch of that grave humor in my family.

One of the hardest things about this... hole of grief, is aging. My parents are in their mid 50s now, and I’m going to be 30 next year. I don’t have any other siblings to help take care of my parents. My mom rather flippantly says “Oh, put us in a nursing home”, but that just feels so bleak. I don’t have my sister with me to help with my wedding, to meet Zack or any of my friends, to talk to about our past and our future. She’s not here to kick ass and build amazing apps or tear down the patriarchy or be on the ground reporting the latest news break. There’s so many milestones I’ve already crossed without her but I am always going to miss her.

Bon swayr, ma souer.

[hooptrition]

Patty Mills brings it back home

“Who would've thought?” The text message on her phone finished with four words that sent Rebecca Kelley wandering off down a memory trail that dated back to the year 2000.

As assistant coach for the Canberra Under 14 boys team in that year, she had been part of the team's season that culminated with a trip to Townsville in far north Queensland for the Australian Club Championships. And it was her mum Di, having been that team's manager, who was now texting the question that had to be asked, as the baby of that long forgotten team, Patty Mills, prepared to return home with the NBA Championship trophy.

In all the wonderful hoopla that accompanied Patty's return to Canberra, including the awarding of the Keys to the City, the story behind the story and the lessons it may hold still lies in wait, to hopefully be applied to and appreciated by following generations of youngsters and their parents.

Kelley, now a deputy director in Canberra's governmental machine and a mum to her own growing family, remembers a tiny youngster who was already moving to a different beat.

“He was the first kid I'd ever seen wearing headphones as he wandered around and naturally I had to ask him just what he was listening to. He gave me a listen and I have to say that the rap I heard from Eminem really wasn't my thing and in fact wasn't really something that most kids in Canberra were even aware existed at that time,” she explained.

Despite being the youngest and smallest and not having much of playing role at that national tournament, Patty was the central team motivator and energy creator for the group, revealing for the first time possibly the origins of his world famous towel waving antics years later in San Antonio for the Spurs.

“On the team bus he'd be standing up, singing and carrying on and more often than not would have the whole team standing up rapping and dancing along. Here was the baby of the team who wasn't playing much and yet he had a unique rapport with all the kids, on the bench he was constantly animated and vocal and at training he was going the whole time.

“You wouldn't have thought back then he was a kid going places. He was good but he wasn't outstanding, but who knew what was ahead?”

Kelley's last honest reflection is part of a larger question that has produced an incalculable amount of literature and theorising about just what is talent, whether it's mostly down to nature or nurture and what exactly are the things we should be looking for that might indicate a tiny 11 year-old might one day scale the basketball world?

By the next year Patty had started to blossom on the court and at an Under 14 tournament hosted by key regional rivals the Illawarra Hawks, he began a rivalry with Hawks star forward Daniel Jackson that would track all the way to the Australian Institute of Sport (AIS) and Australian Junior teams.

Brad Luhrs who has a been a seemingly constant figure over the past fifteen years in Canberra junior basketball was Patty's coach at that event for the first time.

“You could tell he was a clear standout at that level then,” Luhrs said, “as was Jackson for Illawarra, though he was way taller and bigger.”

“Patty was quick and he had great ball handling skills but if you'd asked me then, I would have thought the other kids would eventually catch up or that he'd slow down.”

Within a couple of years Patty was the point guard general for Canberra's Under 16 State team and had begun to draw the interest of national talent identification coaches who were part of the now disbanded Intensive Training Centre (ITC) across the country.

Naturally Patty had also attracted the attention of other sports, and as well as setting and still holding almost every junior record at Woden Little Athletics club, he dabbled in Australian Rules football alongside his basketball.

Jason Denley was Patty's coach for the Australian Capital Territory (ACT) team that contested the Under 16 National Championships in 2003, Patty still being 14 at the time due to his very unGladwellian August birthdate.

“He was small, incredibly fast and utterly fearless and for a kid with such athletic talent and I was most surprised by his lack of ego,” Denley said. “He never complained to referees and somehow he seemed to be someone that his teammates and opponents both admired for the endless energy and passion he brought to every play.”

ESPN's Sports columnist Bill Simmons has long held a view that every successful franchise needs a team “Chemist” to keep everyone happy and connected and along those exact lines Patty was continuing to expand his role as the supreme on and off court motivator.

“There was a group in our large boys and girls ITC training sessions that Patty used to be one of the leaders of, and in the warm up stretching they would launch into singing that they had obviously choreographed some time before,” Luhrs remembered.

“Amazingly James Taylor's 'How sweet it is to be loved by you' is the one that sticks in my head and to hear 14 and 15 year old boys harmonising and chiming in at coordinated spots at the top of their voices might have been something other coaches wouldn't have tolerated. Somehow though that sort of comfortability as a group and self-confidence was their calling card and at the end of the day how can you not want that?”

An invitation to his first Australian Junior Camp followed soon after 2003's Under 16 Nationals and as that camp stretched across an age range from 14 to 17 Patty was once more the smallest and youngest fish in a pond that was becoming increasingly concentrated.

At the camp Patty was one of the two standouts guard prospects along with Victoria's Scott Pendlebury, who would famously eventually choose Australian rules football over basketball thus clearing the way for Patty to start on scholarship at the AIS.

Brian Goorjian was at that time the new Australian Boomers Head Coach following on from the team's disastrous qualifying loss to New Zealand that had scuttled 2002's World Championship plans and he was front and centre at that camp to see what the next generation had in store for the program.

“Within the first half hour of Goorjian arriving on the floor there was one kid that he used exclusively to demonstrate every defensive and offensive drill,” Denley recalled.

“Paaaatty get out here, delivered in a rolling Californian twang, was pretty much the chorus for the camp and despite being so young, Patty was clearly already some sort of leader by the dint of his sheer energy and joy for each task and endless clapping and hollering for anyone and anything he or the group came across.”

Interestingly, at the same time Goorjian was possibly signalling that even at that early stage Patty was going to be part of his national team plans (Patty would eventually find his way to the Beijing in 2008), an entirely different version of Aron Baynes to that which played a part in this year's Spurs triumph alongside Patty was lumbering through drills at the camp.

Shortly after that camp Patty moved in to the AIS on a full time basis but still maintained his role as the spiritual leader of the ACT junior teams he continued to play for at Junior National championships.

“My overriding memory is of his infectious energy, the talk and support that just never waned,” Luhrs recalled from his later time as ACT Under 18s Head Coach. “And this was with him as the star of the team and it was obvious that this wasn't just something he discovered when he was sitting on the bench. It was part of him.”

At the AIS Patty bought all his familiar calling cards into play as then Men's Assistant Coach Paul Gorris confirmed.

“You'd watch him play and he was super quick and talented but when you think back then about the idea of the NBA you never could have imagined it,” he said.

“I was lucky enough to also be coaching the ACT Under 20 team back then and the thing that sticks with me is just how humble he was around the group. He was our big ticket item, with everything run around him and all his team-mates knew that, yet he was always mindful of involving them. He was playing with his mates he'd been with since they were 11 or 12 and they were quite happy to defer to him as needed, but somehow he was able to keep things so that it was never about him.”

The all singing and dancing Patty was still very much in evidence in those team and Gorris' favourite memory of those teams inevitably gravitates back to the off-court feel of the group Patty inspired.

“Back the there was an unwritten rule that I'd drive the 12-seater van to the stadium for each game and everyone would sing along to whatever sort of weird music the team had selected to prepare with. Naturally it was Patty and his cousin, Luke Currie-Richardson, (now not surprisingly a dancer with the world famous Bangarra Indigenous company) who would be leading the chorus up the front of the van. Coming into Ballarat stadium with the whole bus rocking along in full voice is something I never grow tired of remembering.”

For an outsider looking in, the overriding question would have be to just how did this diminutive energiser bunny with super quicks, a solid skill package, a streaky shooting stroke (the recent improvement in which is story all of its own a certain Mr Engelland may be able to explain more fully) and seemingly unquenchable faith in the power of positive encouragement make it in arguably the world's single most challenging athletic league?

Rebecca Kelley recalled running into Patty on occasions around the AIS years after her involvement with the Under 14s.

“He was always one of those people you have touch points with and although my involvement with his basketball career was like a grain of sand on the beach, he's always remembered me and is always quick with the 'G'day Rebecca!' and a chat. I guess it's part of his personality, he's a nice guy and he's not just going to be a great athlete, he's going to be a leader in his own way like the Cathy Freeman of this generation.”

Gorris has been in regular touch with Patty since he first left for St Mary's College in 2007 and commented how much he hasn't changed despite the time away and the constant spotlight.

“He's matured and grown up a little bit from worldly experience but deep down it's still, the same Pat, still very much about the family, still very much about everyone else.” he said.

In the back end of 2011 during the NBA lockout Patty played nine games for the Melbourne Tigers before a forgettable stint in China and his rescue by the Spurs early in 2012. He was four or five in line on San Antonio's guard depth rotation then yet something about him and his approach to that situation or challenge separated him. To watch Greg Popovich's (San Antonio's Head Coach) grizzly visage turn sunny side up every time Patty and his side line support antics were mentioned in interviews during ensuing years is in itself truly amazing.

Is it possible that the natural talent of selflessness and never-ending positive energy is actually way more powerful and valuable than any analyst can put a finger on? Are the tendencies Patty displayed way back in 2000 as a 12 year-old in Townsville the sort of things talent identifiers should be more heavily factoring in?

Are team “Chemists” as Simmons like to call them, a species all to themselves that someone should be tracking or nurturing?

Fittingly Daniel Jackson, Patty's regional rival from those heady junior days has now migrated to Canberra as one of the centre-pieces of the city's semi-professional team, and trying to size up exactly how Patty has been able to do what he's done thus far, is maybe best left to him.

“I've known him since he was 12 and never heard anyone say anything but what a great guy he is...not that he's a nice enough guy or a good guy, but a great guy.” he offered, “and when that's the case there's no doubt it's easier to succeed as everyone in your team is in your corner and pulling for you to be good.”

[loverandservantoftheahlulbayt]

🍃🌺🍃 Our Lady Zainab (sa) 🍃🌺🍃

🌺 The Grace of Islam 🌺

🍃 SHAFAQNA – I was given the herculean task of writing about one of the greatest women in Islam, Lady Zainab (sa).

I use the word “herculean”, because no amounts of words will ever be enough to do justice to her role and her sacrifice in preserving Islam. Moreover, even despite the efforts of numerous biographers, very little actual recorded historical fact is available about her. Even the exact dates of her birth, death, marriage, or number of children, cannot be ascertained with complete confidence.

🍃 It is not necessary however to dig up as many facts or versions of her life as are available in order to perceive her purity and the strategic importance of her contribution in Karbala. She is a metaphor for the defiance of the oppressed against the oppressor, the victory of truth against falsehood. It is through her extraordinary handling of the trials in Karbala, Kufa, and Shaam (modern day Syria), she endured that we have caught glimpses of the untold depths of her courage, forbearance, patience and submission to the decree of Allah (swt).

🍃 Lady Zainab (sa), the daughter of Imam Ali (as) and Lady Fatima Zahra (sa), was born to a family formed by Prophet Muhammad (S), the most outstanding figure in history. The Prophet’s wife Sayyeda Khadija (sa), a devoted woman was her maternal grandmother, and her paternal grandmother was Fatima daughter of Assad, who mothered and nursed Prophet Muhammad (saw). There is divergence of opinions about the date of birth of Lady Zainab (sa); some say it was 5th in the month of Jamadi Al-Awwal of Islamic calendar, and others say it was 1st in the month of Shabaan, in the 6th Hijrah year 625 AD.

🍃 When Lady Zainab (sa) was born, Imam Hussain (as), who was then almost three years old, saw her, he exclaimed in delight, and said, “O father, Allah has given me a sister.” At those words Imam Ali (as) began to weep, and when Imam Hussain (as) asked why he was crying so, his father answered that he would soon come to know. It was when The Prophet (S) was asked to name her, when the angel Jibra’il had come to The Prophet (S) and conveyed the message that, “O Prophet of Allah, from early on in life this girl will remain entangled in tribulations and trials in this world. First she will weep over your separation (from this world); thereafter she will bemoan the loss of her mother, then her father, and then her brother Hasan. After all this she will be confronted with the trials of the land of Karbala and the tribulations of that lonely desert, as a result of which her hair will turn grey and her back will be bent.” When the members of the family heard this prophecy they all broke down in tears. Imam Hussain (as) now understood why earlier his father had also wept.

🍃 From very early on Lady Zainab (sa) developed an unbreakable bond of attachment to her brother Hussain (as). At times when as a baby in her mother’s arms she could not be pacified and made to stop crying, she would quieten down upon being held by her brother, and there she would sit quietly gazing at his face. One day Lady Fatima (sa) mentioned the intensity of her daughter’s love for Imam Hussain (as) to the Prophet (S). He breathed a deep sigh and said with moistened eyes, “My dear child. This child of mine Zainab (sa) would be confronted with a thousand and one calamities and face serious hardships in Karbala.”

🍃 Lady Zainab (sa) shared with her brothers and sister the extraordinary position of having such examples to look up to, and learn from, as her grandfather, the Prophet of Allah (S), her mother Lady Fatima (sa), daughter of the Prophet, and her father Imam Ali (as), cousin of the Prophet. In the pure environment that enveloped her, she absorbed the teachings of Islam that her grandfather imparted and after him her father. From her mother too, she learnt to master all household skills with great proficiency. There is very little known of her physical appearance; however when the tragedy of Karbala befell, and Lady Zainab (sa) was forced to go out uncovered. It was then that some people remarked that she appeared as a “shining sun” and a “piece of the moon”.

🍃 As a young girl she was fully able to care for and be responsible for the running of her father’s household. As much as she cared for the comforts and ease of her brothers and sisters, in her own wants she was frugal and unstintingly generous to the poor, homeless and parentless. After her marriage her husband was heard to having said that, “Zainab is the best housewife.” When the time came for marriage, she was married in a simple ceremony to her first cousin, Abdullah ibn Jafar Tayyar (as). Hazrat Abdullah (as) had been brought up under the direct care of the Prophet (S); after his death, Imam Ali (as) became Hazrat Abdullah (as) supporter and guardian until he came of age. He grew up to be a handsome youth with pleasing manners and was known for his bravery, sincere hospitality to guests and selfless generosity to the poor and needy.

🍃 In her character she reflected the best attributes of those who raised her. In sobriety and serenity she was likened to Umm ul-Muminin Khadija (sa), her grandmother; in chastity and modesty to her mother Lady Fatima Zahra (sa); in eloquence to her father Imam Ali (as); in forbearance and patience to her brother Imam Hasan (as); and in bravery and tranquility of the heart to Imam Hussain (as). Her face reflected her father’s awe and her grandfather’s reverence.

🍃 In Medina it was Lady Zainab’s (sa) practise to hold regular meetings for women in which she shared her knowledge and taught them the precepts of the religion of Islam as laid out in the Holy Quran. Her gatherings were well and regularly attended. She was able to impart the teachings with such clarity and eloquence that she became known as Fasihah (skilfully fluent) and Balighah (intensely eloquent). In the thirty-seventh year A.H. (after Hijrah), when Imam Ali (as) moved to Kufa to finally take up his rightful position as caliph, he was accompanied by his daughter Zainab (sa) and her husband. Even in Kufa her reputation as an inspiring teacher among the women had preceded her. There too women would amass together to her daily sittings where they all benefited from her erudition, wisdom and scholarship in the exegesis of the Quran. The depth and certainty of her knowledge earned her the name given to her by her nephew, Imam Ali Zaynal al-Abideen (as), of ‘Alimah Ghayr Mu’allamah, meaning, she who has knowledge without being taught.

🍃 After the death of both her father, Imam Ali (as) and her brother Imam Hasan (as), through the hands of the power-hungry Bani Umayya, Lady Zainab (sa) was stricken with grief and loss, however she stayed committed to her divine steadfastness and fortitude. In the month of Rajab, sixtieth year after Hijrah, Imam Hussain (as) decided to leave Medina and travel to Kufa at the request of the citizens of Kufa, who led Imam Hussain (as) to believe that they would be willing to combat the tyrannical rule of Bani Umayya. When Lady Zainab (sa) learnt of her brother’s proposed journey to Kufa she begged her husband to give her leave to accompany her brother. Abdullah, himself had wanted to accompany the Imam, but since he had been weakened by illness, he gave her permission to go on this destined journey; with her he sent two of their sons, Aun and Muhammad. Lady Zainab (sa) had been prepared all her life for what was written for her and her brother. She preferred to face the trials of Karbala than to ever be separated from him.

🍃 In Karbala, Lady Zainab (sa) remained brave and steadfast as she saw one by one Imam Husayn’s sons, kinsmen and supporters were all butchered on the battlefield. The fateful day wore on. Hussain (as) was wounded so many times until eventually he fell off his horse. His enemies surrounded him and attacked him with swords and spears. Lady Zainab (sa) saw all this from her tent door. When the fighting came to an end, seventy-three brave men had faced four thousand, and after the bloody encounter was over none of the Imam’s supporters were left alive. The Imam’s body was trampled by his enemies’ horses, his head was severed, and even the tattered cloth with which he had hoped to preserve his modesty was snatched off him. Yazid’s army barging in the camps, plundered what they could and set the tents on fire. They beat the women with their swords and snatched away their veils. Imam Zaynal al-Abideen’s bedding was ripped from beneath him and he was left lying feeble, weak and unable to move.

🍃 A major part of Lady Zainab’s (sa) mission started when Karbala tragedy apparently ended with the martyrdom of Imam Hussain (as). This chapter of Lady Zainab’s (sa) life began with conveying the message of Ashura in which she heroically defended the household’s rights and did not permit the enemies to take advantage of Karbala tragedy. On the 11th of Muharram, the members of the Prophet’s (S) family were made prisoners and taken to Kufa. A city where once Lady Zainab (sa) and Umm Kulthum had once lived respected and loved. Now they came to this city of their memories as captives. As they entered, the people were cheering and expressing their joy of victory. But the sermon of Lady Zainab (sa) was so powerful that it converted the glorious show of victory into a mournful ceremony, where the evils of the governor Ibn Zyad, were revealed. The sermon caused for the delighted happy faces to sadden, and many even began to cry. As a matter of fact, her eloquent speech even boosted people’s anger toward the governor. Lady Zainab (sa) addressed the people of Kufa with fury words: “Praise to Allah, and may the blessing of Allah be upon Muhammad and his progeny. O people of Kufa, you are hypocrites and deceitful. You feign to be sorry for the death of my brother and his companions. May you always shed tears. I find nothing in you but flattery, evil acts and thoughts, pride and spite and ill will. By Allah (swt)! You deserve lasting sorrow instead of joy. Shames on you, your hands are imbrued with the blood of the son of Prophet Muhammad (S), the one who was your sole refuge in case of adversity. By your evil act and disloyalty, you incurred the wrath of Allah (SWT) against you. Woe betides you! No one will intercede with Allah (SWT) for you.” Her furious words provoked people of Kufa to avenge Imam Hussein’s martyrdom. This frightened Ubaidullah ibn Zyad and his cruel agents. She also delivered a furious sermon in the court of the caliph that made his authority and despotic rule feel undermined. She said: “I fear no one but Allah (SWT). Make whatever evil plot you can. Blazes are waiting for you in the hereafter. You’ll he accountable to Allah (SWT) for your atrocities.”

🍃 When the members of the Prophets (S) were led to Damascus, they were tied with ropes and herded together like goats. If anyone stumbled they were whipped. The city streets had been decorated and the sound of music filled the air. People came out in throngs wearing festive clothes and rejoiced when they saw the procession, preceded as always by the heads of the martyrs. Bearing themselves with dignity and self-respect, the prisoners were paraded through Damascus. In this manner the captives were paraded until the afternoon when they reached the palace of Yazid. There he was seated on his throne and was much pleased when he saw the forty-four bound captives arrive. The head of Husayn was then brought to him on a golden tray. He struck the Imam’s teeth with his stick and said: “O Husayn! You have paid the price of your revolt.” When Lady Zainab (sa) saw this show of arrogance from Yazid, she drew herself up and bravely addressed for all in the palace of Yazid. A part of the sermon Lady Zainab (sa) gave with utmost bravery in the gathering of Yazid son of Muawiya in Syria is as follows: “What you consider today as spoils of war will become ruins for you tomorrow and on that day you will find what you have sent from before. Allah (SWT) does not oppress his servants. I express my complaint only to Allah (SWT) and have trust in Him. You may therefore do any treachery that you have, make all your attempts, and try all you can. By Allah (SWT), you cannot remove us from the minds (of people), and you cannot fade our message. You will never reach our glory and can never wash the stain of this crime from your hands. Your decisions will not be stable, your period of ruling will be short, and your population will scatter. In that day, a voice will shout: “Indeed may the curse of Allah (SWT) be upon the oppressors…”

🍃 Through Lady Zainab’s (sa) bold and fearless speeches and from the word that spread as a result of their journey, people came to know of the events of Karbala and their hearts were stirred. The continued captivity and humiliation of the family of the Prophet of Allah (SWT) was bringing their cause to the attention of an ever increasing number of people. Word came to Yazid that there was turmoil and unrest in the realm, and illusions of Yazid’s good intentions were being dispelled. It was fear of revolt that caused Yazid to release the members of the family of the Holy Prophet (S).

🍃 After being released from prison, Lady Zainab (sa) asked her nephew, Imam Zaynal al-Abideen (as), son of Imam Hussain (as), to tell Yazid to empty a house and return their belongings, with the heads of the martyred. She stayed in the house for seven days, mourning for the martyred along with the rest of the imprisoned women, and the women of Damascus. She was the first one to offer condolence to the fourth Imam Zaynalal-Abideen (as) on the martyrdom of his father. She then traveled to Karbala and mourned at the grave of Imam Hussain (as) and the Shuhada-e-Karbala (as) (Martyrs of Karbala) It is Lady Zainab (sa), who is responsible for the foundation of mourning (Majalis-E-Aza) of Hussain (as). This tradition which has lived in the memories and hearts of millions of Muslims to this day, has kept the sacrifices of Imam Hussain (as) alive, and brought dynamism to every movement that aimed at removing injustices on earth.

🍃 It was Lady Zainab’s (sa) destiny to proclaim to the world the sacrifices made by Imam Hussain (as) and the other members of the family of the Holy Prophet (S) for the cause of Islam. She exposed the evil deeds of Ibn Zyad and Yazid with courage and fearlessness. She endured physical pain and mental torture with fortitude and was a source of strength to all around her and never once did she rebel against the destiny decreed by Allah. The strength of her submission was divine, yet her lamentation poignantly human. It is claimed that she died in Syria, at the age of 57 in the year 62 A.H. Her holy shrine Zainabiya is located in the present country of Syria, or as some others believe in Egypt and nowadays many of the Shiites visit it.

🍃🌺🍃 By Nishwa Gardez 🍃🌺🍃

.

[jakganim]

it’s the last day of january i made it just in time to write my jojo journal entry lmaO

ANYWHO. so 2018 huh. we all know 2017 was a shitfest. and if it wasn’t for any of you then i’m honestly genuinely glad it wasn’t. because it sure fucking was for me :’)) i’m glad that’s over. honestly speaking 2018 did not start off great either. actually it sucked. like terribly. i will delve into that later but it’s not a fun subject, be warned. either way, i guess my feelings from 2017 were kind of leaking into 2018 and i just wasn’t surprised.

despite the bad news, i suppose there’s some good news too. despite the fact that shit really actually went and fucking hit the fucking fan, i feel oddly good about 2018. i feel like it’s just... my year. i have faith in myself and my life, my direction, even if i don’t know where it’s going yet. i’m usually that person that never makes new years resolutions. i knew i’d never actually stick to them so i was like lmao why feed into that bullshit and just end up feeling bad when i don’t fulfill them. well strangely enough, i made some really minor resolutions and have been sticking to them very well. and for the first time i feel like i can really stick to them. they’re things that seem little but are actually really big for someone like me who has trouble following through with what i say i’m going to do and sticking to routines. 

so i started with a skincare routine. sounds small and mundane but... those are the things i have trouble keeping the most. i stick to a skincare routine every morning and night now. it’s actually doing things for me. i’m amazed. being able to keep one routine made it easier to start new ones. everyday when i come home or when my parents come home, i hug them and kiss them hello. that’s... really different for me. and it’s big. i’m a huge family person but i’ve never been particularly affectionate or close or open with my parents. we’ve got our issues with each other, especially my mother and i. we clash a lot and last year i was starting to resent her which is never a good sign. but then shit happened and now here we are and i knew that they would never take the first step so i’m trying to do it instead. i can tell they’re happier. i am too. 

for those of you who don’t know, jordan is not my legal name. but it’s going to be. i’ve been wanting to change my name for about 5 years now. i finally filed my name change petition and i’m excited for that. once everything is legally changed and all my documents are updated, i’ll start applying for jobs probably. with my name. my real name. jordan. what a feeling. i’ve never been more excited and proud. it’s like i’m finally me. like stepping out of my skinny jeans and just throwing on a pair of basketball shorts and getting comfy. i’m comfortable. i’ve never felt lighter. ironic considering the weight of a death in the family.

yikes that was a both a great and terrible transition. to whoever reads this, sorry. i just jumped right into it. welp, now’s the time to talk about that i guess. so yeah. in my last jojo journal entry, i mentioned my aunt, who’d had a stroke and was in the hospital. everything was really confusing at the time and we were all just holding our breaths, killing ourselves waiting for her to wake up. she was in nscu for almost a month. kept bleeding in the beginning, wouldn’t wake up, and they couldn’t perform any surgery on her. she was just laying there surviving off the many tubes they had in her. i visited her as much as i could. i stayed in what i like to call emotional limbo for that whole month just so i could keep it the fuck together. it was so hard to cry. i couldn’t cry. i teared up when i saw my cousin (her younger son) that first night i rushed to the hospital. watching his face crumble was what set me off but i couldn’t even cry then. it felt like i suffocated all through december.

she passed away within the first week of january. i wasn’t exactly surprised, and that could be a good or bad thing. idk. they’d moved her to pcu prior to that. essentially a hospice aka they were kind of just waiting for her to die. it was a saturday and i remember being at work when my cousin (another one, my extended family is very big lol) called me and told me to get to the hospital asap because she wouldn’t make it through the hour. but she sounded so confused, so unsure, that i too could not help but feel anxious. should i leave work early? should i not? i paced back and forth for a while, juggling answering phone calls and text messages from different cousins, all telling me the same thing but all being really vague about it. my boss didn’t even know my aunt was in the hospital for the past month. i didn’t know how to tell him. but eventually it got urgent. i asked him to let me leave. i know i could’ve just told him my aunt was in the hospital and was probably not going to make it. but i felt like saying it would make it happen so i didn’t, just told him i had a family emergency and needed to go. he tried to guilt me into staying by telling me we had a lot of reservations. i wanted to look him in the eye and tell him my aunt was dying and that i was fucking leaving whether he liked it or not. with those exact words. but i knew it would just make him feel bad and hurt myself in the process, so i didn’t. i left before i could snap at him.

i checked my phone as i got in the car and i was getting frantic messages from a close friend of mine. she sounded really distressed and bad things were happening. i had to sit back and breathe bcos i was scared for my aunt, scared for my friend, and it felt like i was getting hit by two trucks back to back and i wanted it to stop. but life goes on and i knew this too well and it seems these days the only thing i’m good at is dealing with high stress situations in the moment bcos i texted her back, though it felt off, like i wasn’t myself, like i couldn’t draw up any genuine emotions even though in my mind i knew i cared, so much, so deeply. but responding to her felt like grappling helplessly at loose sand, trying to keep it all in my grasp. in retrospect my brain was working double time to keep me in emotional limbo long enough to get through this situation. i had felt it bubble up for a second that moment i got in the car and checked my messages. my brain was like lmao fuck that, put that shit away.

so i picked up my mom cos she had no car atm and we went to the hospital together. my aunt was already gone when we got there. i had never seen my cousins and other extended family so gloom in my fucking life. they were all standing outside the room either looking like zombies or crying. my mother and i went in to say our goodbyes. my mom cried, unsurprisingly. i teared up for a second at that but once again, nothing happened. for a moment, i was jealous. after that, everything just felt like a haze. i spent a lot of time waving the tissue box at people whenever they needed it. i stared into the room from the hallway a lot. just looked at my aunt. tried to relay my thoughts to her. convey to her that she did well. she lived a good life. that i was proud of her. that i was sorry she had to stay in that hospital for so long. my cousins and i went down to the au bon pain in the lobby bcos they hadn’t eaten yet. we chatted like life was normal. it was a strange experience, yet everything made sense.

after that night, life went by in one crazy blur. i got sick like the next week which bled right into her wake and funeral. i had shit to do and places to go but everything just felt really unimportant. i remember sitting through a 4 hour meeting with my a cappella group’s e-board right before my illness went full out crazy on me. i was just starting to get sick at the time and i spent half the meeting staring at nothing and coughing into my elbow. it was hard to concentrate but i dragged my ass through it and left with a headache and bunch of responsibilities i didn’t feel like attending to. i finally cried after, well, everything. i wanted to tell my friend (the one mentioned earlier who sent me texts) what i was feeling, what i was thinking, and drawing everything back up from that night managed to push me over. it was some good shit. don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re weak for crying. crying is so good for you when you’re emotional. when you’re sad. i was letting go of a lot of things obviously. i needed that. 

and since then, i’ve been doing a lot better. for a while i thought about death a lot. it scared the shit out of me. still does. i, as a living person, am not actually capable of wrapping my head around the concept of death bcos... well, i’m alive. and that scared me more than anything. but after about a week, those thoughts faded. people once told me i handled these situations well but... i’d never actually had to handle “these situations.” not like this. not this close to home. they just came to that conclusion bcos of my personality. but now that i’m here, i’d like to at least try and believe that they’re right. i want to at least try and believe in my strength to overcome, to stay positive no matter what, to do better, to live happier. i have to. it’s my duty in this life. i need to fulfill nothing more than contentment. i want to one day leave this world knowing that i’ve lived. that i was happy no matter what happened. that i enjoyed this life. and hopefully in the process, offered something to the world. part of the reason i’m doing well is also due to the fact that my aunt really did live a pretty good life overall. she travelled a lot and loved to have fun. she had two lovely sons, one of whom got married last year. nobody at that funeral felt like she had any regrets (not that we’d ever REALLY know, but, the thought helps). she was happy. and so i want to be happy too. when the time comes that a funeral is held for me, i want people to think ah yes... jordan lived a goodass life. what a wholesome life. they were happy. i would want to inspire them to live better, just like my aunt inspired me to. and if in the future i have another life, i hope that person feels the same way, does better, lives more, with even more love, more care, and more sunshine coated smiles.

fin. 180131 | 11:27PM